Pirates of the Caribbean Between the Raindrops
by OutlawJacksBonnyLass
Summary: Set some two and a half years after the events of the film, Jack Sparrow returns to Jamaica, never guessing how this brief stop will change everything he knows. Jack and O.C.
1. Prologue

Finally decided to bite the bullet, and publish on this lovely site what I like to call...The Story that Ate My Life! This is an ongoing work, which has every possiblity in the world of spawning at least one sequel...depending, of course, on how long my sanity hold. 

Or how long the rum lasts, whichever comes first. 

This is an Action/Adventure/Romance set in the world of Pirates of the Caribbean, The Curse of the Black Pearl. It WILL become a Jack/O.C., so if you are disturbed by the idea of anything that even remotely might smack of a Mary-Sue (which, in my opinion, having an established character taking up with an O.C. IS to begin with.), then by all means, turn back now, and shake the dust from your sandals. 

To all who decide to remain and brave it out, I swear on pain of death that I'll endevor to keep this entertaining. 

With that in mind, please keep your arms and legs inside the car at all times, and remember...Dead Men Tell No Tales. It be too late to turn back now...heh...heh...heh.   
  


**Between the Raindrops - Part One **

Prologue 

(Being over two years after the events of the film) 

Elizabeth didn't remember how she had come to be in this place. She only know that she was terrified, more than ever before in her life; and that escape lay just beyond the heavy door that barred her way. She fumbled at the latch with panicked fingers, knowing that something horrible threatened just behind her, and that if she looked back, it would certainly be the end of her. 

In desperation, she threw her slight weight at the door, and choked on a sob of relief when the latch suddenly gave. She stumbled out into bright moonlight, tripping gracelessly over the long heavy skirts that tangled around her legs. She caught herself, and froze in disbelief. 

The moonlight cast a stark, eerie glow over the deck of a sailing ship. The sails, dark and tattered, hung limply in the still air. Before her astonished eyes, rank upon rank of fleshless bodies stalked her with slow menace. 

"Impossible!" Elizabeth shrieked. Or tried to. No voice came from her tensed throat. She could only hear the wild pounding of her heart drumming in her ears. 

What was more horrible -- the sight of so many skeletal faces grinning malevolently at her, or the all too human eyes that blazed from what should have been empty sockets? Elizabeth recoiled, felt something unyielding at her back, and felt fingers hard as steel wrap around her arms. 

"Do you believe in ghosts now, Missy? 

The voice sent a shock like icy water through her veins. She didn't want to look. She didn't want to turn and see him there. It was as though some giant hand gripped at her head, invisible fingers forcing her around while holding her eyelids open, not allowing her to block out the sight of the yellow suffused orbs that burned into hers. 

Captain Barbossa leered down at her, rotting teeth barred in that same remembered cruel smile that mocked her helplessness. Slowly, never releasing her stare, the pirate tipped his head to allow the moonlight to strike his vice ravaged face. The skin surrounding his eyes and mouth vanished like shadows, and the hair fringed jaws parted to allow Barbossa's cold laughter. Elizabeth gathered herself, twisted free of his bony grip, and bolted through the doors behind him. 

Right back into the room she had been so frantic to escape from. 

No way out! Fear threatened to overwhelm what hold she had left on sanity, and she desperately cast about for a place to hide. 

"We will find you, poppet." 

Elizabeth whirled, saw the same vile little man who had dragged her from her father's home in the middle of the night! His far taller partner stood slightly behind, lank hair flopping over his forehead, and that horrible wooden eye seeming to follow her every move. 

"You have something of ours, and it calls to us." the first one said, his avid stare fixed, not on her face; but at some point below. 

"The gold calls." the taller one added in a rapt whisper. 

Elizabeth's hand flew to her bosom. She felt another impossibility hanging there. Glancing down, she felt her flesh crawl in a wave of revulsion at the sight of the medallion resting against her skin. 

Blood money. 

Cursed gold. 

She clawed at the chain, wrenched it from her neck, and hurled it at the pair. Another hand intercepted the coin in mid flight -- a hand that was adorned with a large silver ring set with a green stone that winked the light back at her. Elizabeth stared. She knew that ring. 

Jack Sparrow gazed somberly at his catch, turning the gold over and over in his fingers. He raised his outlandishly kohl rimmed eyes to hers. They sparkled with the same remembered impudence. 

"That wasn't very nice, Elizabeth." he chided, calmly fastening the chain around his own neck, and appearing not one whit concerned when his body became a dessicated corpse shrouded in tattered rags. "What would dear William say?" Sparrow raised his arm, gesturing with an overt flourish. Elizabeth followed his out-flung hand, and felt her knees give away. Beyond the doorway, the deck of the Black Pearl had vanished, replaced by an immense pile of gold surmounted by the same sinisterly carved stone chest she'd hoped to never lay eyes on again. Struggling in the grip of two skeletal pirates, she watched as her Will was forced to bow over the mouth of the chest. The fleshless hand of Barbossa held the sacrificial knife to Will's throat, and the grinning skull turned its face mockingly to her. 

In vain, she tried to cry out in rage, denial, a simple scream. But she was mute, her limbs frozen in place. Will lifted his head. His loving, sorrow filled eyes locked with her own, and as the knifes edge bit deep into his skin, she saw his lips shape a single word. 

_Elizabeth._

Stricken, she found her voice at last in a shriek of despair. _"Will!"_

* * *

"Elizabeth?" 

Her eyes snapped open. Disoriented, she found herself in darkness. This was a warm, familiar darkness though, and the sound of rustling sheets beside her made her go limp with relief. 

"Elizabeth?" Will asked again, voice thick with sleep. 

He must have rolled over to turn the lamp up she thought, and indeed the room brightened enough for her to see his wonderful concerned face hovering over her. She threw her arms around his neck, and instinctively he pulled her closer. 

"What's wrong?" he breathed into her hair. 

"I'm sorry...it's silly," Elizabeth wiped at her eyes and sniffled, "Just a stupid dream. Awful - but stupid." She smiled wanly and Will lowered her back to the pillows, stroking her temple soothingly. 

"Barbossa again?" 

She hesitated for just a moment, then nodded. 

Will frowned sympathetically, and glanced away. "I still see him too...and Jack, with that sword run through him." 

Elizabeth studied him, then decided she really didn't want to dwell on old enemies and allies any more this evening. 

"I'm a terrible wife." she announced with mock contrition, "Keeping my poor husband from his sleep. And you up with the sun while I get to be lazy for, oh -- a few more months?" 

Will laughed softly and moved his hand to rest on the noticeable swell of her belly. "The little one likes to keep you awake. Why shouldn't I share the fun?" 

"Hmmm...you're far too good to me, Mr. Turner." She felt pleasantly relaxed again. "Yes, I know." Will sighed nobly. His wife pouted charmingly, then shoved him onto his back. 

"Then you can't complain when I say you make a far more comfortable pillow." And she curled up beside him, head resting on his shoulder. 

"Ah - Elizabeth? Are you sure it wouldn't be better for..." 

"I want to enjoy this while I can." she interrupted, shifting closer. "Before I'm too enormous." 

Will chuckled. A pleasant rumble beneath her cheek. He curled an arm around her shoulder, the other pillowed behind his head, and yawned. Then, almost as if to himself he mused "I wonder what's become of Jack." 

"Will?" 

"Hmm?" 

Elizabeth moved her hand in light circles over his chest. "I don't believe I wish to discuss Captain Sparrow any more this evening." 

Will's mouth slowly curved into a smile. 

"Oh." 

Much later, resting in the circle of her husbands arms with the soft sound of rain pattering against the shutters, Elizabeth Turner mused drowsily on the fantastical series of events that led to where she was now. Listening to the strong heartbeat beneath her ear, she knew she'd not trade one terror-filled second. But strangely enough, just before sleep claimed her, she too wondered what had become of Jack Sparrow.   
  
A.N: And there's the Prologue. Please read and review. 


	2. Chapter1

I decided to upload this tonight, and not wait. Figured it was rather odd to premier a story about Jack Sparrow, and only leave it at the Prologue where he only shows in the dream sequence.

And...I'm a glutton for punishment. 

Please read and review.

Oh yes...forgot about this part. (clears throat) I don't own any of these established characters...except in the vaults of my tortured little mind. So please, oh great and powerful Eisner, don't sue my pathetic little self. 

Ok, enough of that crap -- on with the show!  
  
**

Chapter 1

**

_Northeastern Jamaica, Port Hamilton, off Montego Bay_

Jack Sparrow was, at that moment, wondering something remarkably similar. As sticky situations went, he'd been in far worse. This time it wasn't just his neck on the block, but four of his crew as well. With that in mind he focused all of his attentions on the three armed Redcoats blocking his way on this fine, soggy evening. 

"So Tewsley here," he nodded to the sagging body held upright between two of his men, "He says he's never had the rum before, so this being his first passage and all, the boys bought him a bottle." Jack took a couple of wavering steps closer to the guardsmen. "Don't think the lad's got the head for it -- Quaker parents, savvy?" he said conspiratorially. "You should hear him sing hymns on Sundays!" 

His apparently sodden crew mate let out a hiccough, then a thoroughly convincing moan. Too convincing. 

_Hang on, darlin',_ he thought and set about to convince this trio that he and his companions were nothing more than five harmless merchant sailors who'd had a few too many. 

"Wouldn't want to be his bunkmate tonight, eh?" he barked and let out a bellow of laughter, slapping his thigh and carrying on as if this were the funniest thing he'd ever heard. 

Two of the three seemed bemused by his squinting, swaying performance. The third, obviously a higher rank from the others deferential manner, eyed Jack with obvious distaste while the rain sizzled against the uplifted torches.

"We've orders to question suspicious characters." the officer informed him, and Jack's lips twitched with amusement, "There have been reports that notorious pirates have been seen in the area." He nodded curtly at Jack's horrified expression. "Our men wounded some of them only hours ago. Now, what is your business in Port Hamilton?" 

This might be easier than I thought, Jack mused, and launched into a tipsy recount of the Dutch merchant ship he and his mates hired onto ("Captain Vander'll be wantin' to know about pirates in these waters."), the barrels that had sprung two days out from Port Maria ("An' with our cooper dyin' of the fever only the day before that, God rest 'im."), and the new barrels they were to purchase the next day ("We're already well a week behind on this voyage!"). 

He had them -- he knew it! Now if only they'd be so accomodating as to let them be on their way... Jack felt a rush of annoyance. He dared a glance at his crew and felt his jaw tighten. His Quartermaster, Gibbs, stood with Samuel Bottoms, a burly young gunner who had only joined the Pearl a few months ago. The two men supported the limp body of Jack's First Mate, AnaMaria, between them. Her head hung low, and her long hair was tucked up under Jack's own battered tricorn hat. His old coat helped further disguise her sex, and also the great stain of blood on her hastily bandaged side. Even in the guttering torchlight, Jack could see that her breathing was labored. Kursar, his ship's actual cooper, shifted nervously behind them. Jack caught his eye and shook his head -- an almost imperceptible warning. Kursar stilled himself and did his best to look docile. Captain Sparrow, himself disguised by hurriedly crushing his beads and dreadlocks up under AnaMaria's shell decorated hat, threw himself back into his part. He rambled on drunkenly, voicing sailor's complaints and acting as though he'd like nothing better than to stand here and gossip with these three fine gentlemen for the rest of the night. 

The two guardsmen's eyes had that glazed look that told Jack they were no longer even registering what he was saying, and probably wanted nothing more than to get out of the weather just now. The officer was still measuring him up warily, and Jack was loosing patience. He feared for his crew member's life. 

He was also beginning to feel -- unsteady-- even more than he usually did on land. The headache that had started in the afternoon was growing more pronounced He'd felt uncomfortably feverish all through the day, and even in the cold rainfall he could feel the sweat trickling from beneath his bandana, down his cheeks and the back of his neck. 

The officer noticed this and narrowed his eyes. "What's the matter man? Surely you can't be nervous?" His nostrils flared like a dog on the scent. 

_Damn._

Jack's mind went utterly blank. As he cast about for a plausible excuse, salvation came from the most unlikely source. 

"Didn't he say somethin' wot the cooper dyin' of fever?" one of the guardsmen asked a bit apprehensively. 

"Oh yes." Jack pounced, "Poor old Kinney. I was there with him at the end, you know." He arranged his face into an expression of grief, and regretfully shook his head. "It was just terrible." 

Then, Jack began to cough -- great wracking paroxysms that doubled him over, sent him staggering into the three Redcoats. They fell back, repulsed. One of them muttering an oath, another crossing himself. 

The officer wrinkled his nose fastidiously. "Yes, well..." He straightened and gave a sniff, "On your way, then. I don't want to catch you or your drunken friends on the streets any more tonight." 

"Thank you, sir." Jack wheezed between fits. With that, the five pirates wove their way up the wet street, Jack still coughing piteously in the lead, while Joshamee Gibbs added the final touch by striking up an old ale house ditty in a rusty baritone. 

Three more corners, and Jack lead them into an alleyway. Straightening, he pulled off the hat an shook out his hair. Wiping his face on his sleeve, he peered back around the corner. Satisfied that they hadn't been followed, he hurried to where Gibbs and Bottoms leaned AnaMaria against the wall. 

"How is she?" He drew the coat aside. They had bound her ribs with her own sash, and he saw with dismay the red stain that soaked through the fabric. He looked up. Her eyes were squeezed shut, and she was panting in shallow gasps. It was hard to tell in this poor light, but her skin looked grey. 

"Not good." said Gibbs shortly, "Jack, we're needing someone to tend this." Jack squinted at the Quartermaster. Gibbs was also leaning heavily against the wall, cradling his right arm to his body. The deep cut on his forearm was flowering darkly through its binding. It had escaped the soldiers attention only because AnaMaria's body had hidden it while he supported her. His face was beginning to show signs of severe bruising. 

"You as well, Joshamee." Jack told him seriously, but Gibbs only shook his head, looking back to AnaMaria. Jack took her by the shoulders.

"Still with us, love?" 

Her eyes opened, two dark, pain filled slits. They focused on his face. 

"Aye..." Her voice was a weak gasp. 

" There's a lass." he encouraged. He glanced around. "We can't stay here. They've got the watches out on our tails, and they know we're wounded. If there's a surgeon in this port, those soldiers will be expecting us to show there." 

"And when word reaches Gillette that his men have spotted you here..." Gibbs didn't finish. 

Jack nodded grimly. Captain Gillette was shaping up to become an even greater scourge to pirates, smugglers, and freebooters than even Norrington at his worst. When one of his marines -- leading a troop of ten soldiers -- had recognized Jack from his time aboard the Dauntless, it was by the barest of margins that Sparrow and his crew had given them the slip. 

But not without paying a price. They had been six this morning when they'd made landing on the shore of Montego Bay. Taeger, another new shipmate who had apprenticed himself to Kursar, had been with them when they went ashore for provisions. When the alarm went up, the impulsive lad had been the first to draw his knife. 

Everything was a blur after that. Jack remembered Gibbs struck by a gunstock, then ducking under a bayonet. AnaMaria falling, clutching her side when she couldn't twist out of the way of the soldiers musket. Then Jack himself barking orders to Gibbs and Sam Bottoms to help her while he and Kursar hauled the limp body of Taeger over their shoulders. It was only after taking refuge in an alley much like this one that they'd noticed Taeger was dead, the back of his head a gory mess. 

The pirates left him there, hoping his body would distract the hunters, and broke into a shop front that looked as if it had been abandoned some time ago. There they had looked to their wounds and waited for dark, only to emerge into those three guardsmen. It was probably thanks to this steady rain that they were able to walk away. Who in their right minds would care to question every sailor in a port town, when there was a warm, dry barracks to return to?

_Gillette's men, of course,_ he thought bitterly. _Always eager to see a branded man dance the hempen jig._

Jack turned away, rubbing at his temples and wishing his head would stop pounding. There would be no way off this island the way they had come. The harbor would be crawling with marines, and a street-to-street search would surely follow. 

He wasn't as worried about the Pearl. Her crew was a canny lot who would see trouble and react accordingly. No, it was how to get five people -- two of them injured -- back to her. 

AnaMaria gave a strangled groan and focused again on her Captain. 

" Should've left me...So much...for the code..." 

"Guidelines, darlin'. You know better." He grinned reassuringly and traded her hat back for his own. She forced a pained smile in return, and Jack peered around the corner again. "We just need to find someplace to get you fixed up and us a hiding spot." 

"Six miles inland," his First Mate gasped, and he went to her. 

"What's that?" 

"South...six miles up the main...road. Might still live there..." Her voice wasn't much above a whisper.

"A doctor?" Jack asked harshly, but AnaMaria didn't seem to hear him at first. He shook her gently. After a moment she nodded. Then her knees buckled and she went limp. 

Jack cursed and held her up from the muddy ground. "Still breathing." he announced to the men, "It's just a faint. Here, " he passed her into Kursar's hands. "Don't let her fall." He barely heard the murmurs of relief and assent, but returned to the mouth of the alley. 

"Six miles," he mused, "We won't get six feet like this." "We need something big enough for five of us." he said, louder, "And something big enough to pull it." 

"I'll go!" Sam Bottoms jumped away from the wall. "I saw just the thing when you was leading us in here." 

Jack gave him an appraising look, then clapped him on the shoulder. "Alright lad, you've got the job. Just..." he looked the boy over again, then removed Sam's hat. After a second thought he took the bandana as well. The boy only protested when Jack insisted he leave his coat behind. 

"Oi, Captain," he exclaimed, rubbing at his arms, "S' cold out!" 

"I'll have the teakettle going when you get back." Jack quipped. "Now pull your shirt out -- good, now you look like any other landsman. Off you go then." He flapped his hands at the lad, then leaned out after him. 

"Oh, and Sam? Don't get caught." 

Sam grinned back at him, and turned down the narrow street. 

Nearly an hour later found Captain Sparrow and his crew outside of town heading due south on the main road into the dark countryside. The rain had reduced to a light mist, and Jack couldn't believe their luck. All of the soldiers now looked to be shore side, and with Mr. Bottoms driving the wagon, all the others had to do was hide under the pile of horse blankets conveniently waiting for them. With their driver (yawning hugely at intervals after a few stage-whispered instructions from the Captain) looking more or less like a sleepy farm hand up past his bedtime, nobody spared them a second glance. 

AnaMaria was awake again, but aside from a few groans when the wheels found the bumps in the road she was silent, concentrating on her labored breathing.

Jack's head was pounding worse with every plodding step of their slow moving horse. He felt like he was sitting too near an oven, and sweat still poured down his body, soaking into his already wet clothes. He wiped his face with his sleeve again, and caught Mr. Gibbs staring hard at him. 

"It's nothing," he began, but Gibbs pulled the wagon lantern from its post and held it up to see better.

"God's Teeth, Jack!" the Quartermaster breathed, "I thought you were just acting, but you're really --" 

"It'll pass." Jack said shortly. 

"Coming up on the six mile mark, Captain." Mr. Bottoms whispered, and Jack helped AnaMaria to sit up. 

"Your turn. Where to now?" 

The wagon halted along side the stone marker, and Gibbs held up the lantern to reveal the carved "6". The dark woman studied it, and looked further up the road. 

"Go on." she instructed, "Keep driving." The wagon rumbled on with AnaMaria peering ahead. 

They had not gone far when she waved for Mr. Bottoms to turn off onto a smaller road. 

"Keep going. Straight to the house. Ask them...ask..." Her eyes rolled back, and she slumped against the Captain. 

Jack shared an anxious glance with Gibbs.

"Find me that house, Mr. Bottoms!" 

"Aye, Cap'n." Sam snapped the reins, clicked his tongue, and the wagon picked up speed. It wasn't long before he quietly announced "Lights ahead," and Gibbs extinguished the lantern. 

Minutes later, the pirates cautiously crept up the carriage path leading to the main entrance of -- not a house...more of a small estate. 

Jack shook his head. Something didn't feel right here. 

Kursar helped him support their limp crew mate, but Jack draped her arm over Sam's shoulder after the lad stowed the horse and wagon out of range of the lights. 

"The good doctor's done well for himself." he said wryly.

Gibbs widened his eyes and pursed his lips in a soundless whistle. Then he looked quizzically at his Captain. 

Jack had pulled his pistol from where it lay hidden beneath his faded blue vest. 

"In case the good doctor requires persuasion." said Jack, checking the pistols readiness.

Gibbs nodded grimly, one hand drawing his own pistol, the other fingering the hilt of his cutlass. 

Jack exhaled sharply, set his shoulders, then turned to Gibbs with the familiar, half wild feeling of tense exhilaration. 

"Let's go."  
  
A.N. And there you have it. Toon in for the next thrilling instalment, coming to a monitor near you! 


	3. Chapter2

Hello again, all. Have just returned from the San Diego Comic Con, and my head is still spinning. 

But here's the next installment for your reading pleasure...or torture, depending on how you view my writing style.

Arein: I hope this update came soon enough. (smile!) And I would have to say that Jack cares, because the girl's a friend who didn't desert him...even when the "code" called for it. Just returning the favor, as you might say.

Place ubiquitous disclaimer here...I'm too tired to do it myself.  
  


**Chapter 2**

_ Warringford Manor_

  
  
To say that the maid who answered Captain Sparrow's insistent knock was unhappy to see the five wet, shabby, rough looking individuals ranged on the porch would be a gross understatement. She recovered well, politely refusing Jack's request for admittance with a suggestion that he return in the morning, as the hour was late and the doctor had retired for the evening. To her even greater dismay, she found that her attempt to close the door was met with the resistance of a much heavier body. 

"Then you'll just have to wake him up, girl." Jack said, wedging himself further in. He saw a flash of wide, frightened blue eyes, then the maid threw her full weight at the door. 

Jack grunted, and returned the shove. Their tussle lasted only a moment before Gibbs added his weight to the door, sending both it and the girl flying back, and staggering Jack across the threshold. 

Not the best of entrances in Jack's opinion, but at least they were in. He appraised his surroundings, taking in the wide staircase leading to the next level, and the several doorways lining the long entryway. One of these doors must lead to the kitchen, to judge by the two startled looking maids that rushed out, wiping their hands on their aprons. 

He was just about to again voice his demand for the doctor, when several things happened very quickly: The door maid gave an ear piercing shriek, and he spun towards her in time to see a small, foreign looking man rush through the entrance and grab Mr. Gibb's pistol arm hard enough to send the weapon skittering across the tiled floor. Following on his heels, a younger, taller fellow armed with a cudgel launched himself at Kursar, who had to drop AnaMaria to defend himself. This left Sam struggling to hold the unconscious woman while fumbling for his own weapon. 

The little man twisted Joshamee's arm up behind his back, and the Quartermaster gave a sharp bark of pain, then threw himself back into his as,sailant, driving him into the wall. Gibbs leaned hard, pinning the man. 

Kursar threw off his opponent and drew a long, wicked looking dagger from his belt, which brought fresh shrieks from the door maid that were joined in with nerve wracking harmonies by ones from the kitchen girls. 

Jack waved his arms frantically at them, and was wondering just how the situation had strayed so far from his control, when another softer noise captured his full attention. He tensed, then turned slowly. The first thing he registered was the flintlock aimed at his head -- the cocking of the hammer having alerted him. 

The second was that the pistol wavered unsteadily in the shaking hand of a young woman. 

The thought that this could very well be the physician's wife crossed Jacks mind. She looked as though she'd been interrupted from her bedtime preparations, to judge from her unbound hair, and the ornate dressing gown covering her night shift. She was trembling from head to foot, but her wide, frightened eyes never left his face, and Jack realized that she had chosen him as her most likely target. 

_ Bloody Hell._

The foyer suddenly went quiet as the other combatants noticed the stand-off. 

Faced with any number of possible choices, Sparrow decided on the tactic that had served him well in the past and flashed her what he hoped was a wide, friendly smile. 

"Hullo...Just the one I wanted to see." He took a tentative half step in her direction. "Your husband," he began, then belatedly realized that he still carried his pistol in his hand. 

He got no further though, for at his last words the lady's eyes grew even wider. The color drained from her face, and her finger tightened convulsively on the trigger. 

The sound was shockingly loud. It reverberated through the high confines of the foyer, and set ears to ringing. 

A hot blast of air ripped past Jack's right ear, and he felt a slight tug. 

Then he heard something small and metallic tinkle to the ground. 

Then, he caught a strong whiff of something that smelled suspiciously like burning hair. 

Cautiously, he opened his eyes. Smoke from the discharged pistol hung heavy in the air, and though it he saw the look of consternation cross the lady's pale face. Her arm lowered, the spent weapon dangling uselessly. 

"You missed." Jack supplied helpfully after the long silence, and was gratified by her angry frown. With exaggerated slowness, he looked down. On the floor beside his boot, a length of his own tightly coiled hair gently smoldered, the pair of coins bound into it winking light back at him. 

"Close." he muttered absently, and raised his eyebrows. He patted briefly at that side of his head, practically feeling her glare. "Now, as I was saying," 

But she wasn't looking at him now. Breaking off, Jack followed the direction of her stare, and let out an exasperated sigh. The little hellcat was eying Gibbs' fallen pistol! 

"Ah, ah, ah..." he chided, placing himself between it and her, "That's your one." 

Her lips compressed to a thin line, and furious tears welled in her eyes. 

"Where were we then?" Jack wondered aloud, tapping the barrel of his own flintlock thoughtfully against his chin. "Ah, yes -- We require a physician, dear lady." he politely informed her through his clenched teeth. "Would you be so kind as to wake him?" 

Now her look was one of confusion, and she began to stammer uncertainly. 

"Wake? You mean -- you're not...Edward didn't..." Then she drew a long breath, and composed herself. "You are mistaken, sir. I am the physician here. Of a sort." she added with a defensive lift of her chin. 

"Of a sort?" Jack repeated dubiously. Then he waved his hands impatiently. "I don't care what 'sort' you may be, my people need help. Will you aid us, or not? I can pay for your services." he included as an afterthought. He got an affronted look for his efforts, but let it go. 

The lady folded her hands at her waist, the gesture looking somewhat at odds with the pistol still dangling from her fingers. 

"It would appear you have the advantage, sir. How may I be of aid?" 

Her men took this as a sign that hostilities had, at least for the moment; ended. They separated from Jack's men, the taller of the two moving to put a protective arm around the frightened door maid. 

At his Captain's gesture, Sam Bottoms brought his limp burden forward. Jack held the coat open, displaying the bloody bandage, and looked expectantly at the woman. She moved in, peering intently, and shook her head. 

"This will have to come off before I can do anything. How did this happen to --" She paused, staring hard, and looked incredulously at Jack. "-- _Her?"_

Jack thought quickly. A port town surgeon could be bribed to look the other way, but this woman presented a dangerous unknown. Gunshot wounds were a bit hard to explain, and she might just be smart enough to figure out that two plus two may equal pirates on the run. 

Before he could voice his hastily conjured tale, the lady had put a hand to his First Mate's cheek and gasped. 

"AnaMaria? How in the world --" 

She made to clasp her other hand to the ashen face, found herself still encumbered with her pistol, and pushed it impatiently into Jack's startled fingers. 

"Cold -- probably shock." the woman was saying. Her hands moved rapidly, lifting the eyelids, feeling for the pulse at the base of the neck, all the while demanding explanations -- how had AnaMaria been injured, when had it happened, was she coughing or having breathing difficulties, had she been unconscious for long --which Jack readily answered, though omitting certain details. 

She chewed her lip thoughtfully, then turned away, delivering crisp orders with almost military precision. One maid scurried back into the kitchen, the other dropped into a quick curtsy before rushing off in another direction. 

"Bill, show them to the room and get those lights on. And start the fire." 

The tall fellow nodded, and looked at Sparrow. 

"Go with him, Sam." Jack said. 

"Aye, Captain." Bottoms replied automatically. 

The lady's head cocked in their direction, then she continued to the door maid. "Margret, go upstairs and see if you can find -- ah, there you are, Hannah." She tipped her head back, addressing an older, frightened looking woman standing at the top of the staircase. "Put that away and get down here, I'll need your help. And find my apron." 

The older woman grudgingly lowered the fireplace poker she was brandishing. "Yes, Lady Miranda." 

Jack raised his eyebrows, then motioned for Kursar to help Sam. 

The lady (_Lady?_ Jack wondered) then turned with a more deferential way to the little man who had grappled with Gibbs. 

Again, Jack's eyebrows climbed up under his head scarf when she began speaking to the fellow in what he recognized to be Chinese. The Canton province, if his memory served. Her phrasing was formal and she spoke a few words haltingly, but Jack could pick up enough to understand it as an appeal to the man for his greater wisdom. 

The old man smiled gently. "You honor me." he replied with the half bow familiar to the pirate from his excursions in the Orient. He followed after Sparrow's crewmen. 

The lady watched him go with a look of gratitude, then rounded on Mr. Gibbs, pointing at his bloodied arm. 

"You there. Is that yours or hers?" 

"Wha -- oh." Gibbs shrugged. "Just a cut, Ma'am. It's nothing spectacular." 

Jack rolled his eyes. "Let her see it, man." 

Gibbs scowled, but gave a grudging "Aye", and unwrapped his wound for her inspection. She took the proffered arm, turning it gently for a closer look. 

"Deep, but as you say; not _too_ spectacular. Margret will have this cleaned up and stitched." 

She frowned up into his bruised face. "And see if you can't do something about those, Margret." 

"Yes, Milady." the door maid answered, and Mr. Gibbs found himself summarily handed off and lead away. 

He cast an uncertain look back over his shoulder, and Jack was put in mind of an overgrown schoolboy being taken off for disciplining. By way of response, Jack could only spread his hands in a helpless gesture. 

Now he and the lady were the only ones left in the foyer. In the relative calm, he took the opportunity to study her more thoroughly. This was well as she appeared to be doing the same. 

He had taken her for hardly more than a girl, partly owing to her small stature. But now he could see he'd been mistaken. Her eyes, dark in the lamplight, held more gravity behind them than a young girl's could. There even looked to be a hint of fine lines at their corners. Her cheekbones were prominent, the flesh lacking the roundness of a youth's, and her body -- what he could see of it beneath the heavy dressing gown and shift -- was certainly that of a woman's. 

Admittedly, she made and attractive enough picture, in dishabille, and with her hair down around her shoulders. Had the situation not been so dire (and as he privately acknowledged, had he felt better than at present), he might have considered a spot of casual seduction. 

As it was... 

_Ah, well_, Jack thought. 

For her part, he knew what she saw: A rough looking character, battered and swarthy from years in the harsh elements. Hair a wild, sun streaked mess of coiled ropes, braids, and trinkets, and dressed in worn, faded clothing that probably wouldn't have been considered the height of fashion in whatever circles this lady traveled in. 

He saw her eyes linger at several points; the crimson bandana beneath his hat, the tattered sash encircling his waist, the baldric holding his sheathed cutlass, and finally, to the pistols still in his hands. His earlier estimation of her intelligence had been accurate. He could practically hear the pieces snapping together in her mind. She returned to his face, and arranged her own into an expression of distanced coolness. 

"Captain?" 

Ah, so she had heard Sam let that slip. 

"Lady?" he returned, matching her tone. 

She broke her stare, nervously pulling her dressing gown tightly around her. "And this wouldn't be of a privateer, I'm guessing." 

Jack allowed one side of his mouth to quirk up in a tiny grin, but gave no further answer. Her hands were trembling again. She clenched the fabric of her gown to still them, and squared her shoulders. 

"What is to become of me and my household, Captain; when I've done as you've asked?" 

"Straight to it." Jack said approvingly, "Very well then, Lady..." he trailed off expectantly. 

"Warringford." Her voice was hardly above a whisper. "Lady Warringford." 

"Ah," he said, almost as quietly; "Lady -- Miranda -- Warringford." Her eyes were wide and frightened again. It was easy to understand how he had mistaken her age. 

Jack stuffed his pistol into his sash. After a moments consideration, he followed it with her own. He swept off his hat then, and sketched a mockingly florid, courtly bow. 

"Milady," he intoned, grinning up into her nonplused face. Straightening, he clapped the hat back in place and closed the distance between them. "You help my people, let us hide out a day or so, and I give you my solemn word there'll be no harm done you, or your charming home. Do we have an accord?" 

She couldn't hide her reluctance, but all the same she reached for his outstretched hand, and nodded. 

"Yes...yes, agreed." She clasped his hand firmly, but before she could withdraw, Jack, succumbing to impulse, lifted her hand and brushed his lips across the back. He drew back, fully expected to duck a slap, or at least be on the recieving end of a few angry words, but she merely stared coolly with that same remote mask, and reclaimed her hand. 

"Captain." She inclined her head and moved away, pausing at the staircase. "Hannah?" 

"Coming, Lady." her maid called. The older woman came into view, moving as quickly as she could down the stairs with a steady stream of imprecation regarding those who invaded other peoples houses in the dead of night accompanying her. At the same time, the tall fellow, Bill, emerged from around a corner, calling that everything was ready. The lady muttered something under her breath that might have been a prayer, then shrugged out of her dressing gown, standing only in the thin fabric of her night shift, to the great dismay of the gasping Hannah. _"My Lady!"_ she wailed, looking aghast at Jack. She waved a heavy apron frantically at her mistress. 

"Bother that." was the curt reply, "Help me." She flung the gown aside, tying the top of the apron around her neck while Hannah fastened the rest behind her. Then pushing back her sleeves and coiling her hair into a messy bun at the back of her neck, the lady strode toward the anxious Bill, her maid trotting to keep up. 

"Lady Warringford?" 

She stopped, looking back. 

"She's been my First Mate for over two years..." Jack couldn't keep the concern from his voice. 

Lady Warringford's expression softened a bit. She nodded once, and was gone. 

Jack stood for a time, contemplating the space the Lady had vacated. He took a deep breath, held it for a moment, then blew it out in a rush. 

"And then there was one." he remarked to the walls. 

He shrugged, and retrieved Mr. Gibbs' pistol from the floor. Where the Quartermaster happened to be in this labyrinth Jack had no idea, but he felt up to a little exploring. With that in mind he gave a nudge with his toe to the still half open front door, deciding that his first stop would be to the kitchen for a thorough exploration of the good mistresses larder -- and possible her wine cellar as well. He started off in his quest, booted feet echoing hollowly off the marble tiles. 

He remembered something then. Turning back, he stared ruefully at the sad little length of his own dark hair. 

Jack Sparrow was not what anybody would consider to be a particularly religious man, but even by his standards this had been a lucky stroke. Attributing the wave of light headedness that swept over him as the dizziness he always felt on land, he scooped up the lock. With a rakish grin, he lifted it heavenward. A salute to whatever benevolent powers might be watching. Slipping it into his vest, he set off once more. 

Up ahead, the manservant -- Bill -- came into sight, trailing the somewhat lost looking pair of Jack's crewmen behind him. The two caught sight of Jack with evident relief. 

"They threw us out, Cap'n!" Kursar said with some venom. 

"Aye," Sam chimed in, handing Jack his old frock coat, "her 'Ladyship' said something about sewing my backside together if I tried going back in while she was working." The boy looked worried. "Can you actually do that to a body?" 

Jack blinked, and shook his head as if to clear it. Her Ladyship had quite the way with words, it seemed. "I dare say you should do as the lady asks -- unless you want to find out." 

Sam pulled a face and shook his head emphatically. 

"She did say we was to go wait in the kitchen, though." Kursar supplied hopefully. 

"Just what I was about to inquire." Jack angled his head back, looking up into the resentful face of the servant. "Well, man?" 

Bill stared down his nose at the three. "This way." he said finally, and stalked angrily towards a pair of double doors at the end of the hallway. 

Jack glanced at his men, rolled his eyes meaningfully, and fell in behind their surly guide. This proved to be a good thing, for as they drew closer, Bill suddenly perked up his head, then threw himself to one side. The three pirates reflexively followed suit, and were thus saved from a nasty collision when the doors swung wide. A stout, anxious looking woman bustled out, a steaming water kettle hanging from her towel wrapped hands. 

"Watch it, Rose!" the young man snapped as the maid hurried past, and got a breathless "sorry" in response. Bill glared after her, then pushed his way into the kitchen. 

Soon after, Jack and his men were ranged around a small table, helping themselves to a simple meal of bread, cheese, and cold meats. Jacks request for wine, initially met with more stony silence from the servant, was granted. Though not with any great amount of charity. The youngsters face as he slammed the bottles onto the table shouted plainer than if spoken aloud --_'I hope you choke on it'_. 

Jack picked at the remains of his dinner. He didn't feel much like eating - not with his head still throbbing. His fever at least seemed to have subsided. That in itself was a marked improvement, as far as he was concerned. He poured a cup of wine, sipped thoughtfully, then leaned forward. 

"I think there's a few things we need to square between us, son." he began. 

The lad snorted and looked away. 

"Son, I'm about as fond of the situation as you are." Fatigue and irritation lent an edge to his voice. "Now, I'll admit we didn't exactly get off to a good start here," Another derisive snort, but the boy met Jack's eyes this time. 

"But I have two injured people - one of them bleeding to death - and I didn't have time to properly prepare my credentials." 

He leaned back in his chair, restlessly drumming his fingers on the table. "Your mistress and I have reached an arrangement. She's agreed to aid me and mine, and in return I've given my word no harm will come to..." Jack foundered, found he had painted himself into a grammatical corner, as it were, then gave up. "Her -- and hers." 

He watched as Bill considered this. 

"Now, if I may be so bold as to offer up some advice, I'd say if we all try to act like civilized individuals for the duration of this visit, things might just go a bit smoother, savvy? What say you?" 

Bill stared, lulled as many often were by Jack's habit of swaying his head when speaking. The boy's face was still wary, but at least not as hostile. 

"I'll think about it." he said with a slow nod. 

"Fair enough." Jack conceded. He took another drink, then held up his cup, staring as though he could see through it to the contents inside. 

"Good vintage." he remarked. 

The door swung in, and another maid -- Margret this time -- stepped through. She was followed by Mr. Gibbs, whose right arm was neatly bandaged from wrist to elbow. His face had been cleansed of blood and grime, which unfortunately made his bruised eye and cheek stand out with much greater clarity. He slumped into a chair and gratefully tucked into the plate Kursar slid to him. 

"All patched up, then?" Jack asked, and poured him a cup which was accepted with gusto. 

"Aye, that I am. The young Missy has a light touch and a good hand with a needle." Gibbs swallowed, then lowered his voice to mutter, "She also has a tongue like a cat-o-nine, if you'll be taking my meaning." 

Margret made a great show of ignoring him. 

"Did she threaten to sew your bum together too?" Sam asked eagerly. 

"Don't ask, mate." Jack advised, topping off the bewildered Quartermasters cup.   
  


* * *

  
  
It was sometime around midnight that Miranda Warringford stepped into the kitchen. Tired and still in her bloodied apron, she gratefully sank into the seat that Bill jumped up and offered. Pouring herself a cup of wine, she sipped slowly, and regarded the four serious faced pirates. 

"She's a fortunate girl. The damage wasn't as great as I'd feared." 

The Captain, she noted, in marked contrast to the wide smiles and happy exclamations of his men, only blinked slowly and released his pent up breath. "How soon can we move her?" he wanted to know. 

"You asked for a day or so." she reminded him. "AnaMaria will need far more than that. You see --" She stood, and turned slightly away, "The bullet struck her here," She put a hand to her side, then traced a line forward along her ribcage. "It traveled along to about here, and ricocheted off of her rib." 

The pirate Captain grimaced sympathetically, and Miranda nodded. 

"The rib is broken, but her lung wasn't pierced. The the bullet exited here." She tapped her side again. "She's strong, but she'll need time to recover." 

She seated herself, studying the four again. When they said nothing, she looked down at her hands. 

"Are you certain," she began slowly, "that it wouldn't be better for her if you were to leave her here?" 

The three crewmen exchanged uneasy glances. Their leader leaned back in his chair, one arm crossing his chest, the other hand toying absently with the two small braids dangling from his chin. His kohl rimmed eyes were distant, focusing on some invisible point in the center of the table. 

The dark eyes lifted to her face then, but he didn't appear inclined to speak. 

Sensing a certain reluctance to discuss plans in her presence, Miranda rose and departed the table, crossing the kitchen to speak quietly with her nervous staff.   
  


* * *

  
  
Jack watched her go, then waited until he was certain her attention was fully engaged in conversation with her people, before shifting his eyes to Gibbs. 

"Jack, we've got to get word to the ship." that man whispered intently, "We can't risk so much time here." 

"They won't be expecting us back for another day," Sparrow mused, still tugging at his braids, "But all the same, I think a little trip waterside is in order. I'll get there before midday and see if Mr. Cotton's sent out our scout." 

The men nodded their heads, though Gibbs was still worried. 

"And we should warn them that Gillette might show up." he pointed out. Jack considered this. "We'll reset the jib lines and run up different colors. Who's at war with -- no, it would take too long. Who's not at war with our good King George II right now?" 

They all looked blankly at each other. Finally, Kursar offered a suggestion. 

"Holland, maybe?" 

"Close enough." Jack shrugged. "Fine, then. We'll tell them to rig her up like a Dutch trader, and hold off shore. Then, as soon as AnaMaria says she'll fit, we'll be on our way." 

The stout kitchen maid, Rose, leaned through the door, glancing about. 

"Oh, Lady Miranda. You're still down here?" She came through, looking nervously over her shoulder. "Hannah will have fits when she finds out." 

"I dare say she will regardless, Rose." the Lady replied in a weary voice. "You should eat something, Milady." Rose encouraged, but this was declined with a wave. 

"Just some tea, I think." She glanced down at her bloodied garment. "I'll just wash, and then to bed." 

"I'll send it up straightaway, Milady." Rose said, but Lady Warringford held up her hand. 

"First, please make up a tray for Master Zheng. He's offered to sit with our patient tonight." 

She made her way back to the four still seated at the table, hands primly folded at her waist, face once again a distant mask. "Gentlemen," the Lady began, somehow placing a world of ironic acrimony into that single softly spoken word, "Bill will show you to where you may stay this evening." 

She made as though to turn away, then paused, arching an eyebrow. "Also, while you are here, please know that this house is equipped with the most modern of amenities. It is my sincere hope that you will make use of them." 

With that, she swept regally from the room. 

Jack frowned. "And here I was just starting to like her." 

"What was that supposed to mean? 'Modern amenities'?" Sam Bottoms asked, puzzled. 

Margret turned away, shoulders shaking suspiciously, while Bill's mouth squirmed with barely contained mirth. 

"Her Ladyship has requested that you take a bath." he informed them solemnly. 

Soon, the pirates were safely tucked away in a room which Jack guessed was located somewhere deep in the servants wing. 

Kursar was already snoring gently on one of the narrow beds. Sam was in a similar state, stretched out on an old, somewhat threadbare sofa, with one arm flung over his eyes. 

Jack, having waved for Gibbs to take the other small bed, dragged a worn, padded bench in front of an equally worn, padded armchair. 

"You sure about this, now?" Gibbs asked while his captain settled in, and stretched his long legs out in front of him. 

"When have you ever known me to not be?" Jack returned. He crossed his legs, one over the other, and wedged himself more comfortably into the armchair. "Besides," he went on drowsily, "There's some unlucky soul town side that'll be looking for his wagon. Can't let that go on, can we?" 

"But what if you're recognized again, Jack?" Gibbs demanded, "And you going out there alone and all?" 

"Ah, but you forget, mate -- I do have something that gives me the advantage." 

"Oh?" the Quartermaster snapped back, "And what's that?" 

Jack tipped his hat down over his eyes, folded his arms over his chest, and smiled. 

"I'm Captain Jack Sparrow."   
  


* * *

  
  
As it turned out, Gibbs' fears were not to be realized. At sometime before midmorning, a groundskeeper and his son found the body of Jack Sparrow laying in a neat patch of shrubs beside the carriage path. 

There was no sign of the wagon.  
  
**A/N:** As always, please review! Thank you for your time, and I'll have the next one ready for public consumption fairly soon. 


	4. Chapter3

Hope this was soon enough! Although...you may not be so happy with me by the end of this particular chappie. (evil laugh)   
  
To all my reviewers: Thank you so very much! You have really made my day! 

Cayenne Pepper Powder...your words almost made ME cry ( big smile!) 

Kungfuchick and Saxony, I'm glad you like the touches of humor...everything needs a balance, eh? And what made the film such a fabulous experience for me were the touches of humor and absurdities.

Viggorus and Jeshika-Chan, I hope I can continue to entertain! 

Again, thank you all for your wonderful words.

Disclaimer: Yeah, yeah...yakkety schmakkety -- Get on with it, already!  
  
**Chapter 3**   
  
Miranda awoke at the first insistent knock, then heard the muffled voice of Margret calling.   
  
"What's wrong?"   
  
The latch turned, and Margret hurried in. "Oh, Milady, come quick!" The girl's face was frightened.   
  
Miranda had already flung back the sheets, and slid her feet into her slippers. "AnaMaria?" she asked, reaching for her dressing gown.   
  
"No, Milady, it's that pirate -- he's terribly ill." Margret twisted her hands in her apron. "Hutton and his boy Jamie found him out by the carriage path. They said he was shaking something awful like."   
  
Miranda was on her feet and walking, still shrugging into the robe.   
  
"Was he conscience?"   
  
"I don't know," was the admission as they descended the staircase. "This way." Margret pointed, "They weren't able to bring him far."   
  
The doors of the parlor were drawn wide, and beyond could be heard the sounds of a struggle.   
  
"Sounds as though he's awake." Miranda observed. She pushed her way past several bodies, and found the center of the room in total chaos.   
  
The pirate captain roared incoherently in the hands of two of his crewmen. They fought to hold his flailing arms, while a third pirate - the one she'd handed over to Margret last night - leaned hard against the captains chest, keeping the man pinned to the divan.   
  
"Jack...stop it, Jack!" he shouted into the struggling man's contorted face. "Damn it, Jack - what're ye tryin' to do, man?"   
  
"Damn you all to hell, you backstabbing, mutinous whoresons!" the Captain bellowed, renewing his thrashings. Jamie, the son of her groundsman, held onto the captains legs. He wasn't having an easy time of it, and his father looked on worriedly, ready to join in the fray.   
  
Miranda grabbed her maids arm and snapped, "Get my case." She pushed Margret on her way, and caught site of another girl nearby, transfixed by the scene.   
  
"Agnes...Agnes!"   
  
The girl jumped, and hurried over.   
  
"Go and fetch Master Zheng." Miranda ordered. "Run, girl!" she snarled when Agnes looked again at the melee. The girl fled, and Miranda closed in on the struggling men.   
  
"Traitors!" the pirate was screaming, "You won't take her again, I'll see you dead first! Bootstrap - Bootstrap, don't let them do this, man!"   
  
"Jack..." the other man groaned piteously.   
  
Miranda felt a rush of sympathy for the fellow. The Captain was obviously also this man's friend. She peered over the straining bodies, trying to get a better look.   
  
"Better watch yourself, ma'am." the younger pirate - Sam, she remembered - warned while he clung to one of the Captain's arms for dear life.   
  
She shook her head. "I have to see him if I am to help him." At the sound of her voice, the Captain broke off in mid curse, and stilled his thrashing. He lay staring up at her, lips pulled back in a snarl, and breathing heavily from his manic exertions.   
  
A cursory glance was enough to show her the disheartening signs. His sun darkened skin had turned pasty grey save for the angry red flush on his cheeks, and the dark eyes, were overly bright. Miranda felt certain that beneath their lining of kohl, they must be rimmed in red. The men had found him shivering, Margret had said, and now he was obviously delirious.   
  
"A fever." she murmured absently while her mind raced. Certainly a fever...but what kind? When had it started, and where had this man contracted it?   
  
At that moment, the Captain's eyes rolled back and he sagged onto the divan. The four men restraining him gave noisy sighs of relief, and relaxed their collective grip.   
  
Miranda darted in, one hand feeling the man's cheek, the other touching the side of his neck. Her stomach lurched painfully. His skin was hot, and she feared it would only get worse. His heartbeat was far too quick for her liking. It could be simply the result of his struggling, but she didn't want to take any chances.   
  
Her eyes went to the door. What was taking Margret so long? Now that this 'Jack' fellow was unconscious, Miranda felt more than happy to ensure that he stayed that way. At least until she felt sure of the cause of his illness, and for that, she wanted Master Zheng present. But just as she was about to raise her voice for the absent Margret, one of the crewmen spat out an oath.   
  
She turned. The pirate was awake - if he'd ever truly succumbed in the first place, and she didn't even have time to back away before he'd thrown off his startled men. The unfortunate Jamie received a solid kick and fell aside, holding his jaw.   
  
In one smooth motion, the pirate rose to his feet, took two steps toward her, and pulled the pistol from his belt.   
  
The sound of the hammer cocking seemed unnaturally loud to her ears. Miranda's line of vision constricted down to a point that would only allow her to see the barrel of the flintlock aimed at her face.   
  
_How very odd_, a small voice at the back of her mind observed. The rest of her brain was silent, a vast, roaring blank, and she felt an enormous hand squeeze at her heart.   
  
"I've waited ten years for this, Barbossa." she heard the pirate growl in a low, satisfied voice, "I'll see you in Hell."   
  
Then he pulled the trigger.  
  
**_A/N_**Short chapter, I know. The next will be longer, I promise! Ah...the power of the cliffhanger. 


	5. Chapter4

Ask, and it shall be given unto you...at least, when I have the chapters ready to go. 

LOL! Saxony, Arien, and Viggorus: Sorry for giving you coronaries...well, actually, that's exactly the reaction I was looking for, so thank you very much! 

Maybe you'll find this one a little less stressful? As always, please R&R...and tell a few friends, if you'd like! (evil grin)

Gentle readers, let the show begin.  
  
**

Chapter 4 

**   
  
Down by the waters of Montego Bay, the town of Port Hamilton was still ablaze with military activity. All through the streets and marketplaces, people were questioned, and homes and shops were searched. In the midst of this, three abashed guardsmen shifted uneasily under the chaffing stare of Lieutenant Leland Nilsen.   
  
"So you mean to tell me," the Lieutenant said in a deceptively quiet tone, "That you just let them walk away?"   
  
The officer in charge did his best to meet his superior's eyes. "They were just five merchant sailors, sir. From a Dutch vessel, as I recall, and so drunk they could barely walk." Emboldened by Nilsen's silence, the fellow went on. "Besides, sir, we were told to be on lookout for six men. And I don't believe any of the descriptions you've given us of this Sparrow character..." He trailed off uncertainly. The Lieutenant was examining him as though he were some strange new species of insect.   
  
"There were five of them," Nilsen said calmly, but now with an edge to his voice, "because we found the sixth dead in an alleyway. You were told to hold all suspicious characters until I had a chance to examine them myself."   
  
He stepped closer to the nervous junior officer, peering down his nose at the unfortunate. "You and your men have displayed the kind of gross ineptitude that explains why pirates still survive to sail these waters. Consider yourselves on report."   
  
He dismissed the three with a wave, and turned to his second. "Doddson, has word been sent to Captain Gillette?"   
  
"Yes, Lieutenant." the ensign affirmed. "Also, we've seen no boats in or out since the alarm went up."   
  
Nilsen considered this, his hands still clasped thoughtfully behind his back. "Which means they may still be here. Providing they made landing here in the first place, or didn't slip past the shore sentries after nightfall, of course."   
  
"I'm sure there's more wounded, sir." Doddson supplied, "I saw the bullet hit one of them, and Norris had blood on his bayonette from the one he closed with. If they're waiting until their wounded are able to move..."   
  
"No, pirates don't risk themselves for their wounded." Nilsen reminded him. "He'll probably turn up dead like the other."   
  
This thought suddenly struck an off note, though. Pirates were pirates after all, but this Sparrow fellow...this one refused to behave in a predictable manner.   
  
He sighed. "Any other business, Ensign?"   
  
"Ah, no sir," Doddson answered, "Except for one small matter -- there's an Edward, Lord Dunnthorpe demanding to know when he'll be allowed to put to shore."   
  
"He'll have to wait until this present matter is resolved." Lieutenant Nilsen smiled coldly at his second. "But you may tell his Lordship that he may be so fortunate as to witness the execution of a notorious criminal."   
  
"Yes sir."   
  
"On your way then, I'll rejoin you at the next checkpoint."   
  
Nilen didn't watch his subordinate depart. Instead, he surveyed the streets of Port Hamilton. This time, there would be no mad leaps from the battlements of Fort Charles, nor any brash, interfering blacksmiths to stand between Jack Sparrow and his appointment with the gallows.   
  
"A short drop and a sudden stop." Nilsen said to himself. The thought cheered him all the way to the next guard station.   
  
Gradually, in stages, Miranda realized that she was still alive. Surely she must be, for dying couldn't possibly include the feeling of one's heart trying to burst its way free of one's chest or having one's stomach drop to about the region of one's ankles.   
  
She felt all of this and more, but wondered how. She had seen his finger move on the trigger, heard the hammer strike the flash pan -- and nothing had happened.   
  
Once again, that small, clinical voice in her head spoke up. This time, it bade her to take a closer look.   
  
Miranda blinked, and felt the first twitch of hysterical laughter try to force it's way out of her throat.   
  
It was her own pistol that wretched man had drawn on her! The very one she had discharged last evening.   
  
_A fitting irony_, the voice remarked dryly.   
  
Miranda wished it would shut up. Her knees were turning to water. She dared a look into the pirates eyes, saw them fever bright, and widening in sudden comprehension.   
  
The mad light sprang up in them again, and Miranda remembered he still had his own weapon in easy reach.   
  
There was a new sound, then, and this time it was the shattering of ceramic. Miranda's nerves were already at the breaking point. She couldn't hold back the terrified little squeek that broke from her.   
  
The pirate Captain stiffened, his wild eyes widening even further. Now, it was easy to read the confusion that passed through them.   
  
Equally perplexed, Miranda risked a glance beyond him.   
  
His friend with the sadly bruised face stood just there, the fractured remains of one of her favorite vases in his upraised hands. He looked somewhat taken aback at what he'd just done.   
  
The captain groaned and swayed slightly. His knees buckled then, and much to her dismay, the pirate slowly toppled into her.   
  
She caught him by reflex, but his greater weight drove them both to the floor. While she sat there momentarily stunned, the full absurdity of the situation hit home.   
  
She -- a lady of the peerage, related in one form or another to most of the noble houses of Europe, lay sprawled half dressed on the floor with an unconscious ruffian's head in her lap.   
  
A ruffian who had tried to blow her head from her shoulders only moments before.   
  
For a few seconds, as she sensed rather than saw the hands that removed the man from her, she thought that the laughter that threatened before had taken her over. Then she realized that tears had blurred her vision, were spilling down her face, and that it was a spell of weeping that shook her.   
  
She wondered briefly if someone would have to strike her before she could bring herself to function again.   
  
"Milady -- Milady!"   
  
_Margret_, that detached part of her mind informed. _Better late than never, I suppose_. She heard the girl's footsteps approach, then the rustle of her skirts as Margret dropped to her knees at her side.   
  
Miranda didn't feel ready to deal with anybody just then. She drew her knees up, and hid her face in her arms.   
  
"_Miranda!_" another voice screamed.   
  
_Ah, should have wondered when Hannah would make an appearance. The poor dear's really forgotten herself right now_.   
  
More frantic footsteps, and she felt herself taken into a motherly embrace. It felt good to just sit there for a time and let herself be coddled, but when Hannah began alternating from cooed endearments to rather savage denunciations, Miranda decided to call a halt.   
  
"It's alright, child, I won't let them near you -- What did you do to her, you filthy savages? I'll have all of your heads on poles, I will! Bursting into a lady's home, and...what's that, dear, I didn't quite catch it?"   
  
"I said it's fine, Hannah. I'm alright." She raised her head, wiped her face, and gave the older woman's hand a reassuring pat. Then she looked for her would be assassin.   
  
They hadn't moved him far. The pirate was stretched out on the floor, and this time somebody had shown the sense to take his pistol and sword.   
  
He looked strangely vulnerable laying there. She watched the rise and fall of his chest. His breathing appeared steady, and his fingers curled relaxed over his stomach. His cheeks were fever flushed, and there was a slight line of pain between his brows, but his lips were parted as if he were merely sleeping.   
  
Miranda wanted to kick him.   
  
This must have shown on her face, for his friend knelt beside him, looking frightened.   
  
"Ma'am, you've got to understand -- he's not in his head right now, ma'am, Jack would never..."   
  
"Wouldn't he?" she snapped, her voice sounding shrill to her own ears, "Wouldn't you -- pirate?"   
  
The man's bewhiskered face paled, and he looked so stricken that she felt ashamed of herself.   
  
His Captain was a different matter. He had forced his way into her home, terrorized herself and her household, mocked her, and had now tried to murder her as well. She hated him with everything she had in her, hated everything about him, from the top of his unkempt hair to the toes of his vulgar boots.   
  
And now he had brought an illness into her home -- one that could spread to every single person here.   
  
He had upended her world without a second thought, he had...   
  
She caught herself, and remembered the reason for his invasion. He had brought his wounded First Mate to her for healing. In complete disregard for the ways she'd understood pirates to adhere to, he had brought AnaMaria home -- not left her to die.   
  
She wiped her eyes again, and crawled over to him, ignoring Hannah's protests. His temperature was climbing, she realized, and even worse -- he was beginning to stir.   
  
It all went rather quickly from there. Master Zheng at last arrived and administered the light dose of laudanum that her hands were too unsteady to measure out. The pirate, somehow understanding the softly spoken Cantonese, drank thirstily from the drugged water glass, and relaxed into sleep soon after.   
  
At last Miranda felt she was able to tend to the most pressing matter, and questioned the Captain's friend -- Mr. Gibbs, she'd learned -- about any symptoms the fever ridden man might have displayed.   
  
The fellow wasn't able to tell much. Only a vague recollection of the Captain 'sayin' his head hurt', and that he 'didn't look too good last night'. When he added, almost as an afterthought, that the Captain seemed to be sweating for no apparent reason, Miranda and her teacher exchanged hard looks.   
  
They both bent over the prostrate man, and Miranda felt the usual stab of envy watching Hui-Sheng Zheng conduct his examination. How he could tell so much just from looking at the whites of someones eyes she'd never been able to grasp. Not even after three years of his instruction. She'd never seen him mistaken, though.   
  
Master Zheng looked up and nodded somberly.   
  
"Malaria." she affirmed softly, and heard Mr. Gibbs utter a papist oath. "Not as bad as that." she reassured him. "Not a contagion, at least. If caught in time, it can be treated."   
  
"How?"   
  
"Powdered cinchona bark, Mr. Gibbs. It's proven highly effective in the past."   
  
Mr. Gibbs didn't sound happy with that. "Sounds like a lot of heathen mumbo-jumbo." he muttered, not quite under his breath.   
  
Miranda shot him a glare. "Would it clear the matter for you if I told you that its other name is 'Jesuit's Bark', sir? Or perhaps you'd prefer that I do this in the old prescribed way and bleed the bad humors out of him? I don't seem to have any leeches on hand right now, so I'm afraid opening his veins will have to do. Would you by chance care to lend me your knife?"   
  
"I didn't mean it like that, ma'am." he protested weakly, and again she felt contrite for her outburst.   
  
"Forgive me," Miranda apologized, "That was uncalled for."   
  
She missed whatever the fellow might have said in response, for now Master Zheng had lifted the Captain's hand to examine the skin around his nails. Another technique that had always eluded her understanding. Though she couldn't imagine what the elderly physician hoped to see -- the man's hands were so covered in tar and grime. Master Zhang must have realized the same, but he preservered, and next drew the right hand across the recumbent body. His fingers worked the knot free from that curious little half glove, and the physician pulled both this and the frayed bit of fabric from the pirate's hand.   
  
The cuff slid back from the Captain's wrist. Miranda understood now why he kept that side fastened. The scar from the branding iron that marked him as a known pirate would have been clearly evident otherwise. The cuff must have come loose during his bout of delirium.   
  
Seeing the brand mark gave her an odd, sickly sensation. It brought a sharp reminder of the fact that her life and home were now in the hands of a particularly violent breed of criminals.   
  
Still engrossed in his examination, Master Zheng raised the hand higher, and the sleeve fell back to the pirate's elbow.   
  
She barely gave the tattoo a second thought. So many men who went to sea had them, it was virtually a given.   
  
Then, she looked again.   
  
A bird in flight against a many rayed sun settling into three stylized waves. Something stirred in the back of her head. This mark was familiar somehow, but for the life of her, Miranda couldn't imagine why.   
  
A bird in flight...   
  
Then she knew.   
  
A sparrow -- and that Mr. Gibbs had called him 'Jack'. She turned to the iron haired pirate.   
  
Gibbs started guiltily when she craned her neck around to stare at him.   
  
"_Jack Sparrow?_" she asked, quite a bit louder than she'd intended.   
  
He winced a bit, and his lips started to form a denial, when a slurred voice, drowsy but insistant, nearly startled her out of her skin.   
  
"_Captain_...Jack Sparrow..."   
  
The voice was that of the unconcious man, but when Miranda whirled back to him, the Captain only shifted a bit in his sleep.   
  
The members of her household were murmuring excitedly to each other. Miranda wasn't listening. Her mind was sifting through every half-recalled bit of gossip.   
  
Jack Sparrow -- an almost mythical figure to those residing in the part of the world known as the Caribbean. Part brigand, part trickster, said to have the ability to vanish at will like the Arabian Djinn. One who had pillaged an entire port town without causing or suffering a single casualty.   
  
Only a few years back, she remembered, he had caused quite the stir here in Jamaica. Whichever version of the tale one chose to believe in, certain points remained consistent - that Jack Sparrow, incarcerated by no less than James Norrington himself, had slipped his cell, sized control of the Navy's finest bark, and sailed off with an apprentice blacksmith to rescue Wetherby Swann's kidnapped daughter.   
  
"And then he disappeared again!" she heard Agnes tell someone, "From the very gallows, with the noose around him, he did!" The girl's tone was awe struck, reverent even.   
  
Oh dear, Miranda thought.   
  
"...Have heard of me..." the pirate slurred again, but not as strongly. He was still asleep, but now with an absurdly satisfied little smile bending his lips.   
  
Miranda could only shake her head. So this was the famous Captain Jack Sparrow. The pirate whose exploits verged on the legendary -- the same fellow whom she'd first seen flapping his arms about in an ineffective attempt to shush her screaming maidservants, and then addressing her with slurred speech, his body swaying like a drunkards.   
  
How very strange.   
  
"We should move him now, Lady." Master Zheng reminder her quietly in his native speech, and she put all thought of legends from her mind.   
  
"Right." She accepted old Hutton's hand up from the floor. "Right... ready up another sickroom. Make sure there's plenty of ventilation. Also, somebody please fetch Mrs. Nesbitt and have her ready the laundry. No, not you, Rose. I need you to tell Cook..."   
  
It felt good to be back in her element. To know her course and set out upon it. When she had finished, only Master Zheng remained.   
  
He studied her in that calm, unreadable way that always made her feel like a silly child. Then he coc/ked his head.   
  
"You did not need me to tell you this man's illness." he pointed out, and his look grew stern. "Any more than you truly needed my supervision with that young woman's injury." He shook his head sadly. "When will you learn to trust your own knowledge?"   
  
She looked away, ashamed. "Perhaps when I have your years, honored sir."   
  
"That is not an answer, Qianru." he sighed, using his private name for her.   
  
It wasn't an answer. She didn't have one to give. Instead, she changed the subject, feeling cowardly.   
  
"What will you do now, Master?"   
  
He sighed again, and Miranda felt even smaller.   
  
"I will continue preparations for my voyage."   
  
She said nothing, and didn't look up when she heard his departing footsteps. She didn't want him to see her tears. 


	6. Chapter5

Greetings, gentle readers. Back with the next chapter in this ongoing saga.

Captain Tish, thank you so much for those kind words...if the O.C. doesn't fit in, the entire story may as well be trashed from the onset. Very happy to see she'd going over well with you.

Arein, Jack's problem is that he's contracted a nasty case of malaria -- a particularly nasty bug back in the days of the 18th century, and still a problem to this day. It does some rather horrible things to a person. So watch out for those mosquitos! And Miranda reveres her tutor as a dear friend...no more, and no less.

Saxony -- Master Zheng is preparing for his voyage home, and as such, will be leaving. Miranda will be saying goodbye to a dear friend who she feels she's disappointed with her lack of confidence. Also, she just had this pirate bloke try to blow her head off. I think I'd be crying too. LOL!

Taurus - Sparrow 0506, your sudden change of handles just confused the blazes out of me for a moment! Lol! Warn a body next time!

Thank you all for your reviews and interest. Hopefully back soon with another update.  
  
Disclaimer: I don't own any of the charaters seen in the movie. There, are you happy now? But I DO own Jack Sparrow's tattoo, brand, and ring. So there! Nyaaaa!  
  
**

Chapter 5 

**  
  
AnaMaria was slow to wake this morning. She blinked back the sunlight, raising up to look around blearily, then let her head fall back to the pillows.

"I thought I remembered hearing your voice, Lady."

Miranda rose from her chair, smiling down at her patient. "How are you feeling?"

"Bloody awful, really." AnaMaria said with a groan. She made to sit up, and Miranda went to assist her. By the time this was done, the younger woman was holding her side , panting slightly. There was a sheen of perspiration on her forehead.

"I can give you something more for the pain," Miranda said, "but do you think you can eat something first?"

"I could eat my own shoes right now." was the earnest reply.

Miranda laughed. "I think we can do better than that." And much to her patient's delight, she uncovered a tray.

"Eat as much of those as you can," she encouraged, pointing to a plate of orange slices beside the bowl of hearty stew, "They'll help you heal up faster."

AnaMaria nodded, mouth already full of broth soaked bread.

Miranda took her seat, watching the girl eat in silence.

"You've grown." she observed after a time, "When I last saw you, I was still the taller one."

AnaMaria pushed the last orange slices around on her plate. "Were you angry, Lady? When I ran away?"

Miranda continued to study her. "Angry? No, not truly. More saddened, I suppose." She rested her chin on her hand. "It wasn't that you left -- you knew you were free to go whenever you wished. It was more that I never knew what had become of you. I was worried."

She smiled gently. "I've thought of you often, you know."

Touched by the admission, AnaMaria gave her a hesitant smile in return.

Miranda sighed. "I suppose I've always seen you as that frightened little child. Even when you proved to be much more willful and headstrong than anyone could have guessed."

She leaned forward then, and fixed the younger woman with a look of disbelief. "But pirates, AnaMaria? To consort with them, to _be_ one of them?" She shook her head slowly.

"It wasn't like I'd planned it that way, " AnaMaria said defensively, "I tried to make my way, but all anyone ever saw was this." She touched her cheek, indicating her dark skin. "Black - and a woman too." Now, she looked angry. "I learned that there were two kinds of people, Lady...those that took, and those that got taken. I decided I wanted to be the one doing the taking."

Miranda said nothing, only regarded her sadly.

AnaMaria toyed with her oranges again, then popped one into her mouth. "Besides," she said, chewing thoughtfully, "I wasn't always a pirate. I made enough to buy my own fishing boat. It wasn't a bad living."

"What happened?" Miranda asked, and got a rueful grin in response.

"Jack Sparrow happened." AnaMaria said, and nodded when Miranda's eyebrows raised. "Oh, aye. He stole my poor little **_Jolly Mon._** Then he got it sunk."

"And now you're his First Mate?" she couldn't believe her ears.

AnaMaria gave a short laugh, grimaced, and clutched her side again.

"It does sound funny when you say it like that." she admitted when she could breathe again.

Miranda had already risen to take the tray from the bed, and returned a moment later with a cup in her hand.

"Here, drink this," she said, "It'll make you sleepy, but it will help with the pain."

AnaMaria murmured her thanks and drained the cup. Gingerly, she maneuvered herself to lay prone again. It wasn't easy. Even the slightest movement obviously caused her great pain. Miranda tucked the sheets up around her.

"Try to rest now."

The girl looked up, her eyes already unfocused from the drug. "I tried to pay you back, Lady."

Miranda smiled gently. "I know," she admitted, remembering when the first of the sad little parcels of coins had arrived on her doorstep. "Somehow, I always knew they were from you." She took the girl's hand, giving it a reassuring squeeze.

"Rest." she commanded in a whisper, and AnaMaria closed her eyes.

Miranda busied herself with cleaning up her medicine bottles, checking the stoppers, and returning each in turn to her leather case. She tucked this under her arm and was about to leave, when her patient spoke up in a mournful voice.

"I hope they made it back to the ship."

She turned. The girl was staring at the ceiling, looking not a little bit lost. For an instant, Miranda considered lying to her, but then thought better of it. "They didn't. They're all still here -- waiting 'till you're well enough to travel. You can see them later." And she quietly closed the door, leaving AnaMaria staring gratefully after her.

Outside in the corridor, Miranda allowed herself a moments respite, case clutched to her chest as she leaned against the wall. She was not looking forward to her next stop...not after a full day and night of treating a fevered, delirious pirate. In the end, the only way to insure against injury -- to himself, as well as those trying to aid him -- was to keep Captain Sparrow heavily sedated, rousing him only to pour more cinchona laced fluids into him.

The true crisis had come after nightfall, when his temperature had risen to such a degree that she'd had him placed in a tub of cold water in an effort to leech the heat out of him. Added to all of this was the complication of three other men sorely worried about their stricken companions, and she'd been forced to pawn them off onto her poor kitchen staff just to keep them out from underfoot.

All in all, a thoroughly draining experience that had left her bone-weary.

An ironic smile bent her lips then. At least this morning, she wouldn't be facing any of these disreputable fellows in her nightclothes.

Admonishing herself for delaying, she pushed away from the wall, and walked the few steps that would bring her to Captain Sparrow's room. Agnes had been assigned to sit with the man this morning. With any luck, she'd have seen to it that he'd eaten his breakfast. If so, Miranda hoped to douse him with more medication, followed by a healthy dose of laudanum, and by so doing, gain another few hours of peace for herself and her beleaguered staff.

She paused just outside the door. From within she heard something that sounded suspiciously like giggling. The pirate must have said something amusing.

At least, Miranda fervently hoped it was only something _said._

"Oh yes," she heard Sparrow's voice now, low and confidential, "And then, they made me their chief."

Agnes giggled again, this time joined by a deep chuckle from Sparrow. Miranda decided to make her presence known. The maid jumped from her chair, face crimsoning when the door opened.

"Lady Miranda..." she squeaked, and dropped into a nervous curtsy. The pirate was sitting upright, legs drawn up beneath the sheets, and his elbows resting on his knees.

Both looked rather put off by her interruption.

"That will be all for this morning, Agnes." Miranda set her case on the night stand. "Please collect the tray, and you can be about your normal duties."

She fought the urge to laugh. If Agnes looked disappointed, the pirate more closely resembled a child who's favorite toy was being removed from his reach. He recovered easily, and transferred his attention to herself. She saw calculation in his dark eyes, but then he arranged his expression into one of cloying adoration, and held out his arms to her. _"Admired Miranda,_" he began in impassioned tones,_ "Indeed, the top of admiration. Worth what's dearest to the world!" _

She stared. The man had the effrontery to quote the Bard to her?

He did. What's more, his smile widened, and her proceeded to look her up and down in the most blatantly suggestive fashion.

_ "You, oh you, So perfect and so peerless, are created of every creature best." _

To her absolute horror, Miranda felt a blush creep up into her face. She disguised it by rummaging through her medicine case, selection its contents at random.

"Very good, Mr. Sparrow, you've read _'The Tempest'._" she said, and heard Agnes giggle again. She'd never realized how annoying that sound was before.

"That will be all, Agnes." She let some of her irritation show this time, and the girl finally got the hint, collecting the tray and hurrying out, closing the door behind her. Miranda gave it a moment, still sifting through bottles. Then, she turned quietly to the door, pulling it open with a sudden movement. Agnes must have had her ear to the keyhole, for she straightened with a haste that rattled the plates resting on the tray.

"Oh, and Agnes?" she said as if she'd expected the maid to be crouched there all along, "Please tell Cook I'll be in to consult with her shortly." She watched the girls abashed retreat, and only when the fluttering apron strings disappeared from view did she finally step back, remembering only at the last moment not to slam the door.

The pirate didn't bother to hide his amusement. Nor was he in the slightest way fazed by her frosty disapproval, boldly eying her again as he was.

"So, I have the honor of being looked after by the noble Lady Warringford herself, eh?" he remarked, and stretched in a leisurely fashion.

He was trying to bait her into...something. She couldn't be certain of what, but did her best to ignore it.

"And will we be joined by Lord Warringford today?"

Miranda tightened her lips. Was the man actually making a clumsy attempt to discover her status?

"My father died many years ago, Mr. Sparrow." she informed him steadily. "And as he had no sons, there is no 'Lord Warringford'."

"Ah..."

The man sounded pleased by this information, and the way in which he was studying her made Miranda feel...jumpy, for lack of a better thought. She wished now that she'd kept that information to herself.

"Was there something?" she asked flatly when he continued to stare.

"I liked the other look better." he noted in his slurry voice with a rather dismissive gesture at her muted, unadorned gown, and neatly coiled hair.

"Sorry to disappoint you, Mr. Sparrow," she replied, though her tone indicated anything but contrition, and prepared his next cup of medicine, "It would hardly be practical to treat the sick and injured while wearing one's best court finery, wouldn't it?"

"I suppose so. Which brings me to my next question..." He beaded his eyes at her. "Woman, what have you done with my effects -- and where are my clothes?" The pirate plucked scornfully at the oversized shirt that hung around his shoulders.

She met his scowl, and oddly enough, didn't feel intimidated by it. "Your man, Mr. Gibbs, is presently keeping your effects." Miranda told him, arching an eyebrow. "He agreed with me that after last morning's incident, it would be best to keep such things out of your reach for the time being."

His scowl deepened, and he looked on the verge of an angry retort. Then, something flickered in his eyes, and his mouth formed a small "O" of surprise. This time, he was the first to look away.

"Apologies." he said, and Miranda didn't doubt his sincerity. "I thought I'd only dreamed it. Though I guess this means we're square now, eh?" he added hopefully.

"If by that you mean we're even in that neither of us succeeded in slaughtering each other, then yes -- we're even.

"As to your clothes, you and they were equally filthy. I had you both washed." She nearly smiled at Sparrow's offended expression, but marshaled herself and stood sternly at his bedside.

"However," she reached into her skirt pocket, and withdrew several small but expensive objects, "It would seem that any number of interesting items of mine have found their way into your possession."

Her temper flared at his negligent shrug. "So this is what the word of a pirate is worth?" she demanded hotly, "Captain Sparrow, you swore to me that --"

"Ah, ah, ah." he waved a hand to stop her outburst. "Sorry to interrupt your Ladyship, but I think you've got it wrong. Now hear me out," Sparrow went on before she could speak, "I promised no harm to you, and your house, right?"

She eyed him doubtfully. "Yes..."

"Well? Do those baubles seem in any way harmed to you?" And with that, he leaned back on his elbows, grinning impudently up into her face. "I'd say you've no cause for complaint."

Miranda sputtered, outrage warring with amusement for control.

Outrage lost this time. She collapsed helplessly into the chair, shoulders shaking with laughter. 

The pirate sat up, watching her with an odd expression.

"You should smile more often." he said softly, and a strange thrill shot though her. 

Then he shrugged again. "There was a nice set of silver candlesticks in your parlor, if I recall." He widened his eyes meaningfully, though the effect wasn't quite the same without the heavy cosmetic lining he'd had before his bath. "I'm sure they could find their way into my boots, if it will amuse Milady." The mocking grin was firmly back in place.

"Impossible man!" she cried, starting up from her chair. Snatching up the glass from the table, she pushed it into his hands. "Drink your medicine."

He did so, but not without complaining about the taste. Then with more grace than she would have accredited him with, the pirate submitted to her brief examination. He followed the movement of her upheld finger with his eyes, then held those eyes still on her own while she peered into them.

"Clear." she noted, but knowing they would most likely be bloodshot and fever bright again by this evening.

"I'm glad Milady approves." he smiled, showing that odd assortment of gold and silvery teeth. "And may I be so bold as to say how lovely Milady's own green orbs look today?"

"Short of drugging you into insensibility, Mr. Sparrow, I don't suppose there's any way I can prevent you." Miranda replied smoothly, her removal of his title an indication of her mounting displeasure at his familiarly.

"Captain, Lady Warringford, Captain." He shook his head sadly, but even then, he was still sporting with her.

"Oh, do be still." she snapped, and put a hand brusquely to his forehead. "You haven't felt chilled this morning? No? That might not mean much, but if this sickness follows its normal course, you'll be in for another unpleasant evening, I'm afraid. Malaria is not an illness to be trifled with." She reached for his left wrist, feeling for the pulse point there.

"What's that you're doing?" Sparrow wanted to know.

She told him abstractedly, focused instead on determining the strength of his heart -- something of a concern with the amount of opiate she'd poured into him last night.

"Hmmm...wouldn't this be easier?" Taking her hand, he held it to the center of the smooth, tanned expanse of skin bared by the open neck of his shirt.

This time, it wasn't a thrill, but a shock that ran through her limbs at his unexpected touch. Her breath caught in her throat, and she was painfully aware -- not of his, but of her own heartbeat pounding in her ears. So loud, she feared he must hear it.

She drew her hand back, hoping the movement hadn't given away her sudden confusion, and met his eyes, fully expecting the same mocking look.

There was none. That only confused her all the more.

"I believe that's all I can do for you now, Captain Sparrow." Her voice was mercifully level. Quite the contrast to how unnerved she felt as she put away her stoppered bottles, and caught up the case. Almost against her will, she found herself sneaking a glance at the man.

He hadn't moved. Indeed, he seemed preoccupied by some unseen point on the floor.

"Someone will be around to check up on you shortly." Miranda announced, heading with measured steps towards the door. Right now, she wanted a goodly distance between herself and those dark eyes.

"When can I see my people?" he asked, and his voice was as guarded as her own had been.

She didn't turn back. "AnaMaria is sleeping now. She needs all the rest she can get. I'll send your men to see you -- if they've finished eating their way through my larder."

She fled the room before he could say anything more.

* * *

As promised, Jack's men came looking for him. Two of them at any rate, as Mr. Bottoms wasn't with the others.

"We thought he'd be the best one to go waterside." Gibbs explained, "Seein' as he's probably the least disreputable lookin' o' the lot of us."

"You may be right, there." Jack agreed. The Quartermaster's face was still a mass of bruises on the one side, and he squinted villainously through his puffy, black eye. Kursar was in better condition, but nobody could mistake the man for anything but an old salt. Both of them looked far cleaner than he'd last remembered.

Kursar passed this off with a grumble about 'interfering women', but other than a fervent desire to be back on familiar territory, and away from the resentful glares of the household staff, there were no complaints.

There was a brief rap at the door, and Sam poked his head through. Seeing them all gathered, he stepped into the room.

"Any news?" Gibbs asked.

Sam didn't answer him, but instead drew back the curtains from the window.

"Well, come on, then." he called out, and a moment later, with a great rustle of wings, the ship's unofficial scout descended onto the window ledge.

The macaw cocked its head at the men, then began preening its vibrant tail feathers.

Jack approached the bird with his usual caution.

"Mr. Cotton's Parrot," he began, and the bird straightened like a soldier coming to attention. "Report." Jack ordered.

"Storm's a brewin'" the bird replied, fixing a bright eye on Jack.

"He's right, Cap'n." Sam interjected, "I had to dodge some redcoats on the way back, and I heard 'em say Gillette was due in a day or so, and he was coming in on that new bark of theirs -- the **_Vanguard._**"

Jack frowned. This was not good news at all. "And our status?"

"Clear skies above!"

"Well that's something, at least." He looked around the room. "Paper - I need something to...ah!" He riffled through a set of drawers, found a small inkwell, pen, and paper. He tore off a part of the last, and hastily scrawled a note.

"Just like we said before," he said to the men, "Look Dutch, and hold off shore."

"But what if someone wants a closer look?" Gibbs wanted to know.

Jack thought about it. "Good point." he said, and remembering his story to the guards down at the town, began writing again, speaking the words aloud as he did so.

"If. Chance. Of. Boarding. Run. Up. Plague. Flag. Satisfied, Mr. Gibbs?" he finished, waving the scrap around to dry the ink. Now the only problem lay in getting the note to his ship. He approached the macaw with some trepidation, wondering how he might convince the creature to allow the note to be tied to its leg, and how many fingers he might have to sacrifice in the process.

With an air of condescension, Mr. Cotton's Parrot stretched out its neck and neatly relieved Jack of the note. The bird turned on the sill, and with a raucous squawk, launched itself into the air, the scrap of paper fluttering in its beak.

Jack stared wistfully after the bird, still watching long after it had disappeared from view.

"That ought to take care of it." Gibbs commented.

"Oh, yes." Jack leaned on the sill, breathing in the morning air that blew across his face. "Provided, of course, there's anyone left on board who knows how to read."  
  
**_A/N:_**Please keep those reviews coming -- it helps keep me on my toes! 


	7. Chapter6

As requested, here is the update. Soon enough for everybody? ;)

Saxony: Yes, Miranda definately had a reaction to the dear Captain...wouldn't you when he starts pouring on the charm. Fear not...you ain't seen nuthin' yet!

Taurus-Sparrow : AnaMaria's a fave of mine too...had to use her.

dshael and Captain Tish: Thank you again! Please, everybody R&R!  
  
**

Chapter 6

**  
  
Jack greeted the next morning with a few choice, muttered curses. Another day lost to his fever was behind him, and another day land bound and confined within this mausoleum to look forward to.

He groaned and sat up, rubbing at his eyes, and spied the covered tray in easy reach on the low table. Next to it was a cup that was probably filled with more of the vile liquid that woman insisted upon pouring into him.

He shrugged, and downed the stuff, noting that it didn't taste as awful today. Somebody had added sugar to it. He wondered if it had been that delightful Agnes girl.

Easier to imagine that, than from the stern eyed, primly mannered 'Lady' Miranda.

Although, he mused while making his way through his breakfast, the lass was lovely when she smiled. Or when she was angry, for that matter. Jack had to admit it was far more entertaining to provoke a reaction from that icy exterior, than to charm his way into the good graces of her serving girls.

Yesterday's reaction had been...interesting. His admitted imposition upon her person had obviously had an effect on the lady, as was to be expected. What he hadn't anticipated was his own reaction.

Also interesting.

From that perspective, the day ahead suddenly looked a bit less tedious.

His tray empty and his belly now full, Jack got to his feet and padded from the room. Whatever anybody might have to say about it, he was determined to see his First Mate's current state for himself.

He didn't have to look far. There was an open door halfway down the hall, and through it, he could hear the voice of his Quartermaster.

"So the sooner you're both of you on your feet again, the sooner we'll be out of here." Gibbs was saying.

"How is he?" AnaMaria asked next, and Jack thought her voice sounded thick, as though she'd been drugged. Then he remembered she probably had been.

"Oh, well you know old Jack," Gibbs reassured, "He just mixed a couple o' live cobras into a keg of rum, drank it down, and --"

"Chased it down with a scoop of black powder," Jack interrupted with a straight face, "Just to liven the taste, you understand." He stopped at the bedside, smiling down at her. "And here I am."

AnaMaria looked him over while the men greeted him happily.

"You look funny." she decided somewhat drunkenly, and tried not to laugh.

Jack frowned down at his borrowed clothing. The shirt would have fit two of him, and the loose white cotton britches flapped around his calves when he walked. Between that and the glimpse he'd caught of himself in a mirror - no head scarf to keep his hair from hanging in his face, the large bone ornament missing as well, no black lining around his eyes -- he thought he looked odd too.

"No more so than you, luv." he smiled, "In that frowzy tent you're wearing."

She swatted at his arm.

"You're looking better, at least." he said honestly.

"Mmm..." AnaMaria shifted carefully, wincing when she couldn't find a more comfortable position, "Still hurts like hellfire. She wants to keep me off my feet, but..." She trailed off.

Jack didn't need to ask who the Ôshe' in question was. The Lady Warringford was indeed a force to be reckoned with, if she could dictate terms to somebody as strongly independant as his First Mate.

He stayed with AnaMaria for a time, trading casual insults, and generally trying to give the impression of a man who hadn't been in real fear of loosing a friend.

AnaMaria tired quickly, though, and the drugs that eased her pain also made her drowsy.

"Just one question,"Jack said before she could drift off, "How is it that a pirate lass such as yourself had connections with the aristocracy?" He grinned impishly. "Have you been holding out on us?"

AnaMaria turned her face away. "She bought me."

She wouldn't say anything more on the matter. Jack didn't press it, but motioned for his men to follow from the room. "

Where's our cooper got himself to?" he asked, noting Kursar's absence. Gibbs told him, and Jack swore.

"And you say she asked him to go along?"

"Insisted would be more the like of it." Gibbs yawned so widely, Jack thought he heard the man's jaw crack. "Sorry. Half the people here were up before the sun. Includin' us." "

Then why don't you go remedy that. My room's just down the hall, and I don't intend to be using it any time soon."

So saying, Jack walked away from them.

"Where are you off to, then?" Sam called after him

. "To get some answers from our good hostess." he replied, turning the corner.

Alone again, Jack made his way through the house, bare feet slapping on the cool marble. The place was strangely quiet. Only the other day it seemed teeming with people.

He thought about exploring the upper level, then decided against it. With the way his luck was running, that old Hannah woman would no doubt be waiting around a corner, ready to brain him with a fireplace poker.

Ahead, the corridor emptied into a sort of large sitting room. At the far end a pair of doors were opened wide to admit the air.

As he neared, Margret appeared through those doors, looking rather startled to find him standing there. She admonished him for being out of bed, but when he asked to speak with her mistress, Margret only pointed out onto the grounds and told him a vague 'out there'.

He thanked her politely and was through the doorway, moving down the wide stone steps before she could protest.

"You've none to blame but yourself if you have another spell, and you're out here all alone!" she called after him.

Jack only waved back over his shoulder. He walked for a time, taking in the surrounding area. No fine connoisseur of landscaping, he could nonetheless appreciate the beauty displayed here. There were fruit trees in abundance. Many varieties, if he could judge correctly, and several of them heavy with oranges, lemons, and other kinds he wasn't able to put name to. Roses intermingles with a myriad of flowering bushes, and the air was filled with the lazy droning of bees.

The overall picture was one of a garden that had simply sprung up naturally, lacking formal lines, or the rigid structuring of an orchard.

All in all, a pleasant place. The sun felt good on his face, and warmed the soil beneath his feet. He could almost understand how a man might be held to the land.

Almost.

"Captain Sparrow?"

He turned. Lady Warringford was approaching -- perched on the back of one of the biggest horses Jack had ever laid eyes on. It picked its way easily through the trees, black coat gleaming in the light.

He eyed the creature uneasily as it neared. He'd never been comfortable around these animals. From the way the horse was tossing its head, the feeling was mutual.

Lady Miranda reached out and patted the heavy neck soothingly with her gloved hand. "He's always like this with strangers." she explained. Then, she rose up in the stirrups, and dismounted.

"I see your Ladyship doesn't exactly follow the popular conventions." Jack remarked with a wave that the saddle. She had ridden astride as a man would.

"No," she replied, "Not when it involves 'my Ladyship' taking a tumble from this height." She patted the horses neck again, and looked Jack over.

"I'm not so sure you should be up and about, Captain Sparrow. You look tired." Jack smiled. Really, she made this far too easy for him. _"No, noble mistress,"_ he recited grandly, _"Tis fresh morning with me when you are by at night." _

"Stop that," she frowned. Then, her face relaxed. "Strange that you know that play so well. I was supposed to have been named after my grandmother, but when the time came, father decided on Prospero's daughter instead."

"Is that so?"

"I was born at sea, Captain Sparrow. In the middle of a tempest, no less." She tugged on the bridal, leading her horse away. "Father thought it appropriate."

Appropriate indeed. Intrigued in spite of himself, Jack kept pace with her.

"I heard there were a lot of goings on earlier, and now, one of my men seems to have gone astray."

She retreated behind that guarded facade again.

"Yes. There's a ship from Port Maria that's meeting Hui-Shang Zheng at Falmouth. He --" Her voice caught, and she cleared her throat to hide it. "He's fulfilled his promise to teach me. He's been with me for three years, and now he's going home to his family."

She wiped quickly at her eyes. "Master Zheng had to go now -- before the weather in the China Seas gets too dangerous for a safe crossing."

"I'm surprised you didn't go to see him off." Jack noted while fending off the attentions of her horse. The creature was taking an unwholesome interest in the colorful beads and coins hanging in his hair. "A little help here?" he asked plaintively.

"Reisen." she said reproachfully with a tug on the bridal, and the inquisitive animal released Jack's dreadlock from his teeth.

"I would have gone," the lady continued, responding to his earlier question, "But then Master Zheng reminded me that I had two patients I was responsible for."

He grunted in acknowledgement, and walked to her other side, placing her between himself and her horse.

"Though that still doesn't explain why you felt the need to Shang-Hai one of my men to act as your stevedore."

He caught a flash of green from under the brim of her riding hat.

"I only 'commandeered' him for a short time. It seemed the best solution, as my teacher had to meet his ship today, and Bill was to drive him. Mr. Gibbs didn't say it aloud, but it was easy to see that your men feared mine would report to the authorities that you were holding this place hostage, as it were. So since your man -- Mr. Kursar, was it? Strange name. Since he seemed the most nervous about it, I asked him to accompany. That way, your man got to keep an eye on mine, and Bill got an extra pair of hands to help him with Master Zheng's cargo."

Jack was impressed. This might have been the exact way he would have chosen, had their positions been reversed. He decided to test the boundaries of her logic.

"And if your fellow slips away from mine long enough to acquaint somebody with your plight -- as it were?"

"He won't do that."

"Why not?"

"Because, Captain Sparrow, I told him not to."

She had surprised him again. Hands clasped behind his back, he sidled closer. "And why would Milady do something like that?"

The Lady glanced uneasily at him. Casually, as though trying not to offend him, she moved to put the horse's body between them. Jack hid his amusement. She peered at him from around the horse's head.

"Your reputation preceeds you, Captain."

He raised his brows, nodding for her to continue. This time, she did smile.

"Captain Jack Sparrow," she intoned as though reciting a story, and he stood a little straighter. Unfortunately, this also served to bring his hair back into the reach of that indecently curious horse of hers. While he flapped his hands to shoo the animal away from his scalp, he tried to keep his attention on what the Lady was saying.

He found that he very much liked the way she spoke his name.

"Gentleman Jack Sparrow," she went on, "Cunning Jack Sparrow. Jack the Daring, Jack the Audacious. Lucky Jack, even Mad Jack Sparrow." She shook her head. "So many stories, many of them strain the boundaries of possibility." Lady Miranda eyed him thoughtfully. "But in all of those stories, I've never once heard your name connected with the kind of savagery and brutality that so many others are known for."

She shuddered then, "I remember that Spaniard's exploits several years ago. He was right here -- in these very waters."

Unconsciously, Jack rubbed at his chest, feeling at one of the scarred indentations beneath the thin fabric of his shirt. He remembered that Spaniard, too.

"And then there was that horrible savage Barbossa, and his monstrous crew...scuttling ships with all hands trapped aboard." she went on, unnoticing. "I understand you actually played some part in bringing about that one's downfall."

Jack smiled tightly, but said nothing. Too many memories there, and most of them highly unpleasant.

Then the Lady laughed in real amusement. "And now, idealistic young ladies from here to the Old World sigh, and dream of being aboard the vessel that the romantic Pirate Captain raises his colors on."

"Hmmm..." Jack smoothed his mustache and grinned wickedly. "And how many of these young, idealistic ladies of yours are we talking about here? Twenty? Fifty? More?" he asked hopefully.

"Captain, I refuse to pander to your already considerable ego." she retorted, but with warmth in her voice.

"Well, it would be such a shame to disappoint the poor darlings." He sighed then in a parody of regret, and puffed out his chest. "I'm not sure I could live with myself."

"You are so odd." Her voice was thoughtful, then. "You're nothing at all like what I would have expected."

Jack shrugged, and ducked under a low hanging branch.

"I'm just old Jack, Lady. What was it you might have been expecting?"

"Well, somebody much taller, actually." was the ready answer, and he visibly deflated.

"According to some, you're reputed to be about ten feet tall, able to snap a bowsprit in your bare hands, and can repel bullets with a glance."

He snorted bitterly. "Would that the last were true."

"Yes..." she said, and her features were grave. "I did notice that the other day. How did you ever manage to --" But she never finished the question, for at that moment, her horse stopped in his tracks, one hoof stamping insistently.

"I know, we're back." she told the animal. Then to Jack she said, "He likes to run me around the stables before he's put back. Just to show off. If I don't humor him, he'll sulk for days."

"Oh." He had no idea what she might have been talking about, but then she clambered up into the saddle as easily as he would scale his ships rigging. He thought he caught a glimpse of trousers beneath her long skirts as she settled in and took up the reins.

"Pardon me, Captain. This won't take long." Then she leaned over the great black neck, and softly said, "Home."

Without further urging, the horse broke into a canter, forelegs lifting high with each step. Jack followed to the edge of the clearing, watching after them, the woman looking even tinier on the back of the immense beast.

They cantered on for a distance, then the horse stretched out into a full on gallop, great clumps of earth flew from its hooves as it sped around the perimeter of the trees. He lost sight of them behind the low buildings that were the stables, then they emerged soon after on the other side, still moving at great speed.

Jack felt a sudden lurch in the general region of his stomach -- the Lady had dropped the reins!

Her arms outstretched at her sides, hat ribbons flying out behind her, she rode with her head tipped back, eyes closed, and with a smile plainly evident on her face. The pair thundered past the fenced paddock, and for just a moment, Jack forgot to breathe.

Then the horse checked its speed, and she dropped her arms, taking up the reins again, and the moment was gone.

They galloped in a wide arc, heading back toward the stables, when the horse suddenly tossed its head, and hurled itself out in another break-neck run straight for the paddock instead.

Jack's stomach lurched again, and he feared his hostess was in fact insane But her expression showed that she was as surprised as he. He saw her bury her hands in the waving mane, and lean forward in the saddle. Belatedly, Jack ran towards the paddock, having a hideous premonition of what the animal was about to do, and wondering helplessly if he was about to see the woman get her neck broken.

Her horse advanced all too rapidly on the fence, and at the last possible moment, gathered itself and launched into the air.

Jack skidded to a halt as the pair sailed easily over the gate, Miranda clinging to the saddle as if stuck there with tar. Her laughter rang like a bell as her animal pranced outrageously around the paddock, finally strutting to a stop with its head lifted proudly.

"Reckless old fool!" she cried fondly, dismounting. She rubbed her gloved hands over the black muzzle, and up into the mane. "What was that display for, hmmm?"

"Can I start my heart again, Lady?" another voice called out. A plain faced, barrel chested man unhitched the gate, and stepped into the enclosure. "The two of you have just scared ten years out of me."

"It wasn't my idea," Miranda protested, "Ask this mad show-off here." She grabbed the bridal, and planted a noisy kiss on the creature's nose. "I don't know what's come over you today." she said wonderingly to the horse.

Jack had his suspicions about that. The horse pawed at the dirt, stomped emphatically, then threw up its head with a shatteringly loud call, all the while fixing his own humble self with a dark eye.

"Goodness!" Miranda remarked demurely, hand pressed to her bossom.

"That's done it." her stable man said dryly as other equine voiced raised in response, "Old Reisen's set the lot of 'em off. Better let me take him now, Lady."

"Thank you, Shem." She handed over the reins, and preceeded them out of the enclosure, loosening the ribbons of her hat and pulling it from her head. The sunlight glowed off her auburn hair, and her face was flushed becomingly.

Jack felt his mouth grow dry. He'd always had a particular weakness for redheads. Lord knows he'd had the bruised cheeks -- and ego -- to prove it.

She stripped off her gloves as she neared him, tossing them carelessly into her hat, and brushing back errant strands of hair from her face.

Perhaps a bruised cheek might be a small price to pay...

Jack shook himself, and fixed a sardonic smile on his lips.

"Was this a look at the fabled hereditary insanity of the aristocracy?"

"It wasn't my idea," she insisted again, rather plaintively this time, "Really, he's never done anything like this before. Not even..."

She shrugged delicately, and walked away from him, heading towards the house.

Jack kept pace with her, hands once more clasped behind his back.

"May I point out that her Ladyship has a habit of not finishing her sentences?" he asked wryly.

"You may." she said softly, a dreamy look still on her face. She craned her neck to look back at the stables. Jack felt he could hardly be blamed for admiring the long lines of the throat she was so innocently displaying for him. She didn't notice this either.

"That must be what it's like to fly." Her voice was almost reverent.

"I suppose so." Jack replied slowly, but his mind was now far away from pleasant gardens and enticing feminine charms.

It rode height atop the mainmast -- the tallest point on the Pearl. He remembered the fresh smell of the salt air, and how it was to look out upon the open waters. No boundaries. No borders. Just the endless skies above, and the equally vast seas around, and the sound of the wind that rushed through his hair, tugging playfully at his clothes as his ship cut a path through the deep.

The feeling was...it was indescribable. If the Lady Miranda wanted to know what it felt like to truly soar...

He sighed, and the longing for home was an actual, physical pain.

"Captain?"

Jack blinked at the sound of her voice, and his step faltered. He stopped, wavering unsteadily on a surface that felt unnaturally still beneath him.

"Eh?" He turned, and saw her uncertain look. "Oh...Just haven't gotten me landlegs, Lady." he said in a self mocking way, deliberately adding more of the "salt" back into his speech.

"I asked if you felt alright." She stepped closer, the sun flashing off the ring on her hand as she raised it to his forehead. "It should be too early in the day for you to be showing symptoms yet."

She felt the side of his face. "No chills?"

"Not even a shivering of my timbers."

That startled her. "You said what?"

"Never mind."

"Bend down." she said, now catching him off guard. "Bend down," she said again, "You've got something in your -- there." She reached up, and Jack felt a tug at his hair. She drew back, holding a twig in her fingers complete with flower and leaves, and held it up for his inspection.

"It didn't exactly match the rest of your...look." She gestured at his hair trinkets. "Wouldn't be very piraty."

He took the twig, then leaned back, frowning comically. "Piraty?" he repeated with a curl to his lip.

"Never mind." Miranda said primly, but the corners of her mouth turned up.

She turned away again, and after a speculative look, Jack followed. He wondered then just when he'd started to think of her as anything other than a title. She gave him no time to pursue the thought, but addressed him once more.

" Now, what were we discussing before? Oh yes...your rather unique reputation."

"I thought we were still on those hoards of admiring young ladies."

She cut her eyes to him, and huffed a short sigh. "As I was saying, with only a few exceptions, you and your men have conducted yourselves in a manner that I wouldn't have expected from people of your chosen...er -- vocation."

Jack pursed his lips. "And those exceptions would be?"

Miranda looked as though she was having difficulty keeping a straight face.

"Well, besides your rather unorthodox method of gaining entry, you were a bit of a problem last evening. I had to have your men restrain you."

"I tried to kill you again?" he asked, wincing.

"Oh no, on the contrary, you seemed very happy to see me. You made all sorts of highly impropper suggestions -- among other things. Thankfully the laudanum slowed you down enough for me to get out of reach." She turned to him, eyes widened artlessly, "Dare I ask who this 'Scarlet' person is that you mistook me for?"

Jack stared hard at her, feeling his face grow very warm -- something he'd not had happen in more years than he could remember. He tried to think of a suitable comeback, but that part of his brain was apparantly just as dumbfounded as the rest of him by his unexpected blush.

He settled for clearing his throat, and picking up the pace, his borrowed clothes flapping loosely around his frame. She caught up with him after a few steps, easily matching his stride.

"Actually," she began, "I suppose it's really because of AnaMaria. That I took you for your word, I mean." Her voice was serious now. All trace of mockery gone. "I didn't think that men like...that pirates would risk themselves for their wounded."

Someday, Jack thought, he would find the man who'd revealed the so-called 'Code of the Bretheren' to the world at large, and pitch the bloody nuisance off a cliff.

"Will she be able to move soon?" he asked instead.

Miranda clasped her hands, then toyed nervously with her ring. "She's only had three days of mending, Captain. I'm afraid that's just not enough. And while there's no sign of infection set in, you just can't set and bind a broken rib like you would an arm or leg -- it moves when she does, and every time she draws breath, for that matter. She's in a great deal of pain. Even with the sedatives I'm giving her."

She looked up, almost shyly. "Can you not spare her more time?"

Jack stopped abruptly and wheeled on her. "And how much time do you recommend, Lady?" he asked sharply, his frustration boiling over. "A week? Two, maybe?" He raised his arm, pointing. "My ship is out there, and between me and it are an army of people who already have me fitted for a crow's cage."

He loomed over her now, putting his face very close to her own. She shrank back from his anger, but did not retreat.

"How long do you truly believe it will be before somebody lets it slip that the good Lady Warringford is entertaining some rather questionable individuals? We cannot stay here." He stalked away, faster this time, with Miranda rushing alongside.

"But you don't have to," she exclaimed, struggling to keep up, "I've already offered you the option of leaving her with me until she's well enough --"

"Oh, yes," he cut her off with a sneer, never slowing his stride, "A most elegant solution, wouldn't you say, Milady? You can rid yourself of your most unwelcome guests, and gain the return of your runaway slave all in one."

He heard a harsh gasp, and then she was in front of him. He jarred to a halt to avoid running into her.

"How dare you!" she snapped, voice low and throbbing with indignation, "AnaMaria was never my slave. She was a freed woman before she even set foot over my threshold."

Miranda was on her toes, pushing her flushed, outraged face into his, and her eyes were as hard as agates. "I wanted her to stay out of concern for her. Don't presume to impose your own depraved ideals on my motivations."

He rocked back on his heels, glaring down at her. "Your pardon, _Milady_," he began, harshly overemphasizing the honorific, "But I don't believe you fully understand --"

"Captain Sparrow, what you believe is of little or no consequence to me." Her voice was like ice, and her face once again set in a stony mask. Miranda was gone, and the remote Lady Warringford was firmly back in place.

Slowly, Jack raised his hands as though in surrender. Her eyes dropped to his hands. He saw something flare within those eyes, just for an instant, only to see them turn bleak a moment later. She spun on her heel, and was off without another word.

He reached out after her, then stared hard. In his outstretched fingers he still held the twig she'd pulled from his hair. The flower and leaves pathetically crushed in his anger. He spread his fingers, and watched the twisted remains fall to the ground, suddenly feeling like a brute.

"I misjudged you."

She stilled, but didn't look back.

"Yes, you did." she said when he drew near.

"Seems to be a lot of that going on." Jack offered weakly. She made no reply to this, and the silence stretched out uncomfortable between them.

"Well, for God's sake, woman," he rumbled finally, "Are you going to accept the apology, or does a man have to grovel in the dirt at your feet before you'll take pity on him?"

"Don't be absurd." Her voice was reserved, but perhaps not quite as frosty. She angled her head to look up at him.

"There is your own not inconsiderable illness to deal with as well, Captain." The Lady squared her shoulders, and turned her body towards him. "A flag of truce - at least until these current problems are resolved?"

Jack grinned hugely. "A truce it is, then." he said magnanimously, spreading out his arms, "And may I say that I'm touched by your concern for my well being. You know, I'm actually feeling a bit peaky right now, would you be caring to feel my forehead again?" He leaned closer, waggling his eyebrows expectantly.

There -- he had her off balance once more. She shook her head in disbelief at his sudden antics, and the corners of her eyes crinkled charmingly with her unguarded smile.

"Milady!"

Jack started at the urgent voice. So did Miranda. She snapped around to face the stone steps leading to the house.

Margret was rapidly descending, her skirts gathered up in her arms.

"What now?" Miranda asked in a pained voice, so quietly that Jack knew it was for his ears only. Reaching the bottom, Margret ran the remaining distance, plainly in great distress.

"I'm sorry, Milady, but he pushed his way in! He says he won't go until he speaks with you. Lord Dunnthorpe." she added belatedly.

Frowning, Jack looked to the Lady for explanation.

Miranda's face had drained of color. She stood very still, staring at her maid as if she hadn't understood. Her bloodless lips moved, but no sound came out.

"Here?" she managed finally in a hoarse whisper, "He's here...in my house?"

Margret nodded miserably.

Miranda closed her eyes and swayed dangerously. Without thinking, Jack caught her by the arm to steady her. She leaned hard against him, her fingers wrapping convulsively around his wrist. They felt like ice.

She regained her balance, looking up at the house.

"Where?"

"The parlor." Margret's voice was equally hushed.

The lady made as though to move, and Jack released her arm. But her hand was still locked around his wrist. She glanced at this, then up to his face. Her eyes were hollow -- the kind of look Jack had seen in men when they went into a battle they didn't expect to survive. He saw her brows knit. Slowly, her fingers released their hold, and she drew away. She had reached the bottom of the steps when Margret called after her.

"Bill's still not back yet, Lady. Do you want me to fetch Shem?"

Miranda paused, nodded once, then stiffly ascended, and was soon lost from sight.

"Mother of God..." Margret whispered.

"Who's in there?" Jack demanded, still fixed on the doorway. "Who is this 'Dunnthorpe'?"

He heard the maid's skirt rustle in the tense quiet.

"He was her husband."

Jack turned, but with another muffled oath, Margret was already running down the path to the stables.

He faced the house again, and wondered what manner of madness he and his people had walked in to.

"Whatever it is, Jack," he muttered aloud, "You've no buisness with it."

Yet he found his feet mounting the steps anyway.  
  



	8. Chapter7

Hello again, gentle readers. I hope this update comes soon enough. :)

Hate to post and run, but I got slammed with NO time tonight exept to just get this up here.

As always, Please R&R!  
  
**

Chapter 7

**  
  
Lieutenant Nielsen eyed the sleek vessel moored at the dock with more than a hint of envy. The **_Vanguard_** was not only the racing hound of the Caribbean, it was also well armed, and a fair sight to look upon. Nearly the twin of the ill-fated**_ Interceptor_**, this ship -- under the command of Captain Gillette -- had made short work of many who dared to bring their own brand of lawlessness to these waters.

He could hardly wait until one of these ships sailed under his own command. He only hoped that a few pirates remained for him to do away with himself.

So wrapped up in these fond visions was he that he failed to notice Gillette's approach until Ensign Doddson delicately cleared his throat.

"Sir," Nilsen barked, snapping to attention.

"As you were, Lieutenant." Gillette said easily, "Anything to report?"

"Yes sir." Nilsen held out his hand. Doddson deposited his open ledger smartly into it, and he perused the neat writing officiously. "We've five ships holding just beyond the harbor. Two of them Dutch traders, an Italian merchant, and an English one as well. Also one who's declared itself as an English privateer.

"We had that one examined most thouroghly," he added at Gillette's sharp look. "Their Captain's letter of Marque and log book were in order, sir." Nilsen turned a page, and scanned the entries. "Also, as you can see," he pointed to the large vessel moored at the civilian dock several hundred yards away, "per your approval, Lord Dunnthorpe's ship has been allowed to put in. That did earn some protests from the other ships, Captain."

Gillette smirked. "They are not carrying passengers with personal connections to His Majesty."

"No, sir."

"Did the Baron mention the purpose of his visit, Lieutenant?"

"Only that he had pressing business with one of the local gentry." Nilsen informed him, wondering why they were discussing the affairs of some visiting nobleman, when only days ago, Jack Sparrow had been spotted in this very port.

This point seemed to occur to Gillette, for the Captain next questioned how the search was progressing.

"Not very encouraging, I'm afraid. After we found the dead one, we did discover signs of a break in at a vacant shop. And..." he flipped through more pages, "We had a local man report the theft of his wagon the other night."

Another quiet cough from his left alerted him, and he riffled through more leaves. "Ah! But it says here that the wagon turned up the next afternoon none worse for wear. One of the homes searched turned up a smuggler's bolt hole, but outside of some contraband tobacco and rum, no sign of our quarry. We've thought of taking the search inland, now."

Captain Gillette looked thoughtful. "Would he have done that?" he asked, almost of himself.

"Sir?" Nilsen inquired, "Are we to take our search into the countryside?"

Gillette considered it.

"Pirates are a cowardly lot, Mr. Nilsen," he said finally in the bored tones of a lecturer, "Can you imagine a handful of men willing to risk themselves against a fully staffed plantation house?"

Nilsen frowned, wondering how the Captain could forget so quickly that two such men -- one of them the very man hunted here -- had taken the **_Dauntless_** from his watch crew barely more than two years prior. But not being one to gainsay a superior officer, he kept his silence.

"Local gentry, you said?"

"I beg your pardon, sir?"

"You said that Lord Dunnthorpe was here to visit one of the local gentry. Who's here?"

Nilsen foundered, and Ensign Doddson whispered into his ear.

"The Countess of Hoercester, sir." he announced a moment later.

Gillette turned, his eyes sparkling with malicious humor. "That scandalous little creature? Well, well..." He looked away with a speculative smile. The expression did little to improve his pale, pinched face. "His Lordship should certainly enjoy his visit to Jamaica."

"Yes sir." Nilsen said mildly, "Now, about the other ships, sir. Their captains are becoming quite strident, I'm afraid. This delay is putting them behind schedule. My men have also been besieged by the merchant men here -- they have shipments out there, or moldering on the docks, and --"

"Yes, yes." Gillette interrupted impatiently, "A small price for them, if they wish these waters to remain secure." He flicked imaginary lint from the shoulders of his blue coat.

Nilsen, who came from a merchant class family himself, knew this was anything but true. He was about to raise the subject again, but was abruptly dismissed, and left to wonder how the officer who had seemed so competent aboard the **_Dauntless_** (in a battle the still gave Nilsen nightmares) could make such a poor showing of it today.

"Mr. Doddson," he said when Gillette was out of earshot, and the ensign straightened smartly. "Draw me up a list. I want the names of all the landholders in range of this port."

"Right away, sir."

He returned possession of the ensign's neat logbook, and studied the main road from Port Hamilton with narrowed eyes.

* * *

"  
  
"The years have been kind, Miranda." Edward Dunnthorpe said approvingly. His eyes moved over her body, and Miranda immediately felt as though she'd been soiled by it.

His look turned critical. "Though, couldn't you have taken the time to make yourself presentable?" He wrinkled his nose at the sight of her dusty riding clothes and windblown hair.

"As you came to my house unannounced, and uninvited," she returned coldly, "I could hardly have foreseen the need to formally receive visitors."

Dunnthorpe shrugged his broad shoulders.

Miranda felt a surge of anger, and welcomed it. It dampened the roiling fear in her stomach, and cleared her head as quickly as any smelling salts might have.

She lowered herself onto the sofa, drawing up an air of unruffled calm around her. The years, it seemed, had also been kind to him.

He had always been a largely built man, though age had brought a thickening to his middle, and she was certain that the bulking of his arms had more to do with flesh now, then the hardness of muscle she remembered. His face was still coldly handsome, even with the slight pouches under those pale eyes, and his features still finely cut.

He sat at the head of the room -- not bothering to rise when she'd entered, in the high backed armchair that as the landowner should have been hers. She was certain this was deliberate on his part, as was the absence of a hat from his blonde bewigged head. Indeed -- she saw the ornate, feathered cap on the table that held the liqueur decanter and fine glasses.

Miranda arched an eyebrow, and looked pointedly at the glass in his own large, well manicured hand.

"Even by your standards, it's a bit early for that."

He smiled, and polished off his drink, then rose from the chair to refill it. Miranda steeled herself to not shrink back in her seat. He was as tall as she remembered, and still moved with that same schooled air of a predator.

"As I did turn up somewhat unexpectedly," he said, raising the glass to his lips with an ironic smirk, "It would have been rather inconsiderate of me to demand your girl bring me tea when I'm capable of serving myself."

"How kind of you." she murmured.

Dunnthorpe laughed aloud. "You've changed," he noted, "I think I like this new Miranda even more than the girl I married." He crossed the room to stand over her.

"And you've only grown lovelier with time. Caribbean life must suit you."

"You have not yet explained why you are here, Edward. And I doubt that you traveled all this way to compliment me on my appearance."

Dunnthorpe blinked, his smile faltering. Annoyance flickered across his face, but he recovered, and returned to the armchair.

"You're a difficult woman to reach. I've tried to see you on many occasions over the years, but my letters were returned unopened, or you were of on one of those foolish journeys of yours."

"Not all of your letters," Miranda corrected. It was becoming a challenge to keep her dispassionate air. "The last message made your position quite clear."

"Well, how else was I to get your attention?" he protested, having the gall to look affronted, "I'm still quite fond of you, Miranda, Even though we parted on such a bad note. But what a response to send my messenger back with -- 'Go to the devil', Miranda?" He shook his head chidingly.

She said nothing. The outright falsehood of his declaration had rendered her incapable of speech.

"I only wanted to fix the terrible rift between us," he went on, " After my poor Sarah passed on."

Oh yes, she did recall having heard that his second wife, a viscount's daughter, had died in childbirth. She wondered briefly if the unfortunate woman had undergone the same treatment at her husband's hands that Miranda herself had. With an effort, she controlled herself, and found her voice.

"And I would suppose that none of this has anything to do with the fact that my father ceded his title and a goodly amount of his holdings to me?"

"Miranda," he said, still in that chiding tone, "What an evil minded creature you've become." He rose, and almost before she could register it, deposited himself beside her on the sofa. "I can forgive your deplorable behavior -- after all, you've been alone for so long." He managed a look of sympathy. "It must have been so difficult for you, these past years." He reached out and patted her hand consolingly.

Miranda wanted to retch.

"Ah - you're wearing your mother's ring." Dunnthorpe sounded oddly satisfied. "Poor girl, you must miss her so."

His hand now rested on her knee. It was like a lead weight pressing on her. She felt a shocked numbness at the contact. He leaned closer, reeking of solicitude, and also, as she became aware, of the cloying scent of attar of roses that didn't quite successful mask other, less pleasant odors.

"And with your sisters so far away...I can't imagine how you've endured it all this time."

Her stomach turned over. She bolted up from her seat. "I'll ask you again, why is it that you have come here?" Her voice wavered unsteadily, and she loathed herself for it. Furiously, she gathered her self control.

"Very well." Dunnthorpe said calmly. She turned to face him. His expression was smug. He had succeeded in making her loose her composure, and in that moment, she knew that she had already lost this battle.

"In our years apart, I've done well for myself. My trade ventures in both the East and West Indies attracted many investors, which in turn have --"

"Much as I would love to spend this day listening to you congratulate yourself, Edward," she interrupted in a bored voice, "I feel it would be best if you just got to the point. I have much to do today."

Anger flashed in his eyes, but then he smiled condescendingly. "Oh yes, I'd heard you fancied yourself as some sort of physician now." He shook his head again. "Really, how far you've let yourself descend."

He regarded her unblinking, his hands coolly folded over his knee, his posture the very model of refinement in his well tailored clothes.

"Then in the interests of your valuable time," he drawled urbanely, "Let me state this clearly: Your father's holdings in the East India Company -- I mean to have them."

Miranda met his stare calmly. She had expected this.

"We will agree to a certain sum which should be adequate for your needs, or..." he cocked his head, lips curving complacently, "You confess to feeling a great contrition for the shame you've brought to your former husband and to your family name. You agree to my generous offer of forgiveness, and the control of your holding passes to me as soon as the marriage contract is signed."

Miranda couldn't help it. She laughed. A brittle, harsh sound that crackled in the air between them.

"What enticements do you possibly believe you could offer to make me even consider either of those preposterous ideas?"

His eyes narrowed. "Be very. Very. Careful, Miranda. I can more than make your life difficult. Enough to make you remember our first life together with fondness."

"You forget yourself, Lord Baron!" she exclaimed, bringing to bear the use of his title.

Miranda regretted this instantly. It was an act of desperation, and it showed.

Dunnthorpe's brows lifted. "Trying to remind me that you outrank me, Countess?" He tsked, shaking his head again. "Tacky, Miranda, and so characteristically naive of you."

He didn't move. He didn't blink. He only sat calmly on her sofa, under her roof, and slowly tore her world apart.

"Normally, a Countess' word would hold greater sway than that of a mere Baron, but you've forgotten that you're a very long way from England now, Miranda. And in your absence, your standing in the court has suffered greatly. Mainly due to the pain and humiliation you've brought to your devoted spouse. And your vagabond-like existence has done nothing to improve your status.

"My family, on the other hand, have always cultivated our relations with the throne. His late Majesty was quite saddened by your desertion of his loyal servant, and his son George the second offered his sincerest condolences when word reached the court of the scandalous Countess of Hoercester's dalliances with a commoner. It was understood that you toyed with that unfortunate's affections for nearly two years, before you finally tired of him.

"And even worse," he went on, implacably, "While at the very same time you were enticing that poor man into actually proposing a union between you, word began to spread that you were also sharing your home with a heathen Chinaman. Did you honestly believe that this indiscretion would go unnoticed, of that anyone trusted that it was only your home that you shared with the Chink?

"Where is he?" Dunnthorpe asked suddenly, looking around brightly as though he expected Master Zheng to materialize on the spot, "I'd like to meet the man whose replaced me in your -- ah...affections."

Miranda only stared dumbly, paralyzed like a bird confronted with a snake.

"Not going to summon him, then?" He looked disappointed. "Perhaps another time. Ah, Miranda..." he made a show of sincerity, "It doesn't' have to be like this. A word from you, even a simple nod, and we can stop all those whispers - all those veiled, knowing looks. I can have the papers ready on my ship. You can sign tomorrow. Just say the word."

Miranda waited for him to continue, then realized that he was expecting an answer. She swallowed hard on a throat so dry it hurt.

"Is that all?" she managed at last, but when Dunnthorpe spoke again, she knew he'd mistook her meaning.

"Your word," he repeated succinctly, "And that. He lifted a finger, pointing languidly. She followed the gesture, and clasped her hand to her breast, covering it with the other protectively.

"My mother's ring?"

"As a sign of good faith on your part." he said easily, turning his palm upward, and waiting expectantly.

"But why?" she rasped, "What possible use could it be to you?"

"Why, none at all -- save that it has meaning to you." he told her pleasantly, hand still outstretched. She stared at it, remembering what those hands were capable of, and suddenly she was seventeen again, huddling terrified in a corner while those hands came at her again and again.

"Come on, Miranda," she heard him say, his voice jarring her back to the now, "Why make this any harder on yourself?"

She shook her head. Rapid, jerky movements more like a shudder than a denial. "This is impossible..." she whispered.

"What?" Dunnthorpe asked, incredulous, "What did you say?"

"You -- you...after everything you did to me...and to my name...And now you come into my own house, and --"

He was off the sofa and moving for her with a deadly fluidity amazing in one so large.

"You need more convincing?" he asked in a terrifying voice, face dark with choler, "Remember then, you brought this on yourself."

He took a breath, then arranged his handsome features into a look of well bred revulsion. "It would seem there is another sin that can be added to your list of reprehensible behavior."

He circled her with deliberate, measured steps as he spoke. "Your well known habit of traveling to places no woman of your supposed station would ever dare to set foot, consorting with heathens and their occultist ways,"

Miranda followed him with her eyes, wondering where he was possibly leading with this.

"And other instances where you've been seen in the company of women of the most common kind, and of the most questionable character..." He stopped before her, gazing balefully down from his towering height. "You never were a good wife, Miranda. Always defying me, always disobedient -- but even I never expected this of you."

Dunnthorpe moved around her again, and a true shudder rocked her when he leaned in close to her ear.

"Witchcraft is still a crime in His Majesty's realm, Miranda." She felt the blood drain from her face. Whirling, she staggered back from him.

"You're insane!"

His brow wrinkled with that frown of regret once more.

"You see? This is why things were so strained between us. Your vow on God's Word to be an obedient wife obviously meant nothing to you."

For reasons she couldn't even put name to, this statement enraged Miranda more than even the rest of the bile Dunnthorpe had thrown at her thus far.

"You dare fling the Word in my face, Edward -- you of all people?" She was gratified to see surprise in his face. "I know that book far better than you. He commanded men to love their wives as He loved his church and died for it." She met his eyes with every ounce of loathing in her. "I see no nail marks in your hands, Edward. In fact, mostly what I remember of you is your upraised fist."

At that moment he looked so angered, Miranda thought he might actually use his fists. But then his eyes grew strangely triumphant, though he strove to look shocked by her words.

"Blasphemy now." he said in a soft, satisfied tone that sent a fresh chill through her, "Blasphemy - on top of all else you're guilty of."

He smirked, advancing on her so that she stumbled back. "You've lost, Countess." he announced, "I can have you denounced, charged with witchcraft, consorting with the occult, fornication, and now this."

With each accusation he stepped closer, forcing her retreat until the backs of her legs collided painfully with the chair. She fell into it with enough force to drive the air from her lungs.

"What court of law would think to take the word of such a rebellious, ungrateful woman over the good standing of the husband she abandoned, divorced, and shamed? You're father's title can't protect you now. You'll be dragged back to England, sent to the pressyards of Newgate, and before they're done with you, the Crown will have sized all of your holdings for itself."

He gripped the armrests, leaning down over her. Miranda shrank back, tears springing to her eyes, streaming down her face.

"And when this is done," Dunnthorpe purred, "Who better for His Majesty to cede those holdings to, than the man so cruelly wronged?"

Defeated, Miranda could only choke out a wordless sob. "Your family name is ruined," he crooned, "Your sisters will be examined next. If one is a witch, why not all three? Or - you could do as you're told, and..."

He straightened suddenly, and spun away from her. "You! What do you mean by coming in here?" he demanded angrily.

Miranda leaned around him, and through her tears, saw the pirate Captain standing in the doorway.

For an instant, Sparrow's face was like a thundercloud. Then, so quickly she thought she'd imagined that fierce demeanor, the pirate's look turned to one of almost comical anxiety, and his posture hunched into servility.

"So sorry, gov'ner." he said in a voice that didn't sound at all like anything Miranda had ever heard out of him. His eye shifted to her, and he gave an exaggerated start, as though surprised to find her there.

"Ow, Meelady!" he cried in a deplorable accent, trotting to her side, "She's callin' for you, she is. We ought ta' be ready now."

Sparrow held out his hand to her, but in her present state, Miranda could only stare blankly, having no idea what he was going on about.

Sparrow's eyes widened. He looked from herself, to his outstretched hand, and back again.

That got through. She took his hand, felt herself fly from the chair, and steadied on her feet. Then, one hand still clasping hers, the other tightening on her shoulder, the Captain pushed her forward, steering her for the door. All the while, he bleated out nervous explanations to Dunnthorpe.

"Sorry for interuptin', gov'ner, but it's me wife's first, and she's 'avin' ever so 'ard a time of it. Said she only trusted Meelady 'ere, an' no one else, she did!"

And on he went, over Dunnthorpe's sputtering, furious objections, until he had guided her through the doorway, past the group gathered just beyond. Everything was a blur to her, but she recognized the oak solid shape of her stablemaster next to the taller, equally solid form of the youngest of the pirates.

"See the gentleman out." Sparrow muttered aside to that one, who gave a low grunt of assent.

He propelled her onward, pushing her into a sprint as Dunnthorpe's bellows increased behind them, along with the more subdued tones of the two men, and the higher voices of her women.

Miranda couldn't see. Her eyes had filled again. So she wasn't prepared for the sudden movement that whisked her around a corner. She lost Sparrow's hand, met hard with the wall, and leaned there, helpless to check the sobs that wrenched free of her throat. She felt violated -- filthy! As though all the years since she'd fled Dunnthorpe had vanished like they never were.

There was a tentative patting on her shoulder, then her hand was taken again.

"Just a bit farther, luv," the Captain told her, "Hold together a little longer."

She nodded, and pushed away from the wall, allowing him to lead her again.

A few steps later, she found herself in AnaMaria's room. The door slammed emphatically, and Miranda was deposited firmly into a chair. She wiped her eyes and looked up.

AnaMaria was wide awake. Her dark skin was grey tinged, but the hand that held her flintlock was steady. By the door, Mr. Gibbs also had his pistol drawn. He pulled another from his belt and pushed it into his captain's waiting hand.

"What did you see?" Sparrow asked, leaning carefully out the open window.

"One with a long musket next to the driver - probably armed too, and one more in the carriage." Gibbs said. "An' I didn't manage a good view o' him."

Sparrow checked his pistol, then shoved it into the waist of the britches, climbing up onto the window sash. He perched there, waiting.

"What's in your head, Jack?"

"Oh, just ensuring that his Lordship takes the hint." The pirate's face was stony, but when he looked at her, Miranda thought his expression softened just a bit.

"Find one of her girls to look after her, eh?"

"Aye, that I can." Gibbs put an ear to the door. "That's young Bottoms - says he's gone." he reported.

"Alright, then." Miranda heard Sparrow say, but when she glanced back to the window, he'd already vanished. 


	9. Chapter8

Here we are again...meant to update much sooner than this, but real life intruded abruptly.

Glad you liked that "rescue", Saxony...Captain Sparrow sort of surprised me with his methods there, but it seemed very "Jack-ish" to have him go into one of his acts. And no -- that's not the last we've seen of his Lordship. Unfortunately.

Thank you again for your review! Anyone else care to chime in? Maybe?

Pretty please?

Pretty please, with Sparrow on top?  
  
Mmmm...Sparrow on top...  
  
Oh! Sorry about that...sort of sidetracked myself there for a moment.

As always, please**R&R!**

On with the show...of which I only own the original characters...

Dammit...  
  
**

Chapter 8

**  
  
Lord Dunnthorpe stalked down the front steps, red faced and stiff with ire. His man held the door as he climbed into his waiting coach, then returned to his position beside the driver.  
  
Jack peered at this from around the wall. From the corner of his eye, he saw his gunner descending the steps. Sam halted partway down, shoulders twitching ominously. He held an ornate hat none too gently in his big hand.  
  
The coach was pulling away. Jack narrowed his eyes -- there was no footman clinging to the back. He let out a whistle, and Sam looked sharply over. Jack pointed to the hat, then to the coach, and waved his arm urgently.  
  
The lad didn't disappoint him. Sam raised his arms, waving the fancy thing, and bellowing after the departing nobleman.

"Oi, gov'ner!" He ran down the path. "You forgot yer 'at, gov'nor!" The driver reigned in his team, and as he darted forward, Jack saw a hand reach out and furiously wrench the hat away from his man. He had just enough time to gain the foot board, and the coach rumbled on again.

Jack grinned at Sam's startled face as he rolled by, then leaned as close to the window as he dared, straining to hear.  
  
"Repugnant swine." Dunnthorpe complained. Jack heard a flurry of brushing, Presumably, his Lordship was wiping his hat clean of imagined contamination.  
  
"I take it that didn't go well." another remarked in a precise, clipped voice.

Jack couldn't restrain the shiver that rattled him. Something about that voice sent every hair on the back of his neck to bristling.

n response to the question, Dunnthorpe swore viciously at length. Most of his words pertaining to 'that ungrateful slut', and what he would do to her.

"But you were not able to gain it from her?" the other voice asked.

Jack frowned. There was an accent that was tantalizingly familiar, but he couldn't place it just then.

"No. And a near thing it was -- she was only wearing the tawdry thing right there the entire time."

"Don't talk so disparaging of it, Edward," the other cautioned, "That ring is worth more than you own."

Jack blinked. Her _ring _?

A pause, then that chilling voice continued, "And how is it that you weren't able to obtain it from her?"

Dunnthorpe swore again. "I nearly had it - and her signature as well - but then some scabby little maggot dragged the bitch off to help his sow of a wife whelp a brat, and her half-wit servants wouldn't let me follow!"

Jack smiled tightly at this. The nobleman's next words made him grip the hand holds tighter.

"Turn this thing around...I'll take the men with me, and tear it from her hand if I have to..."

Dunnthorpe's partner breathed a cynical laugh. "I don't think so, Edward. You've had your chance, but now we will do this my way."

The coach turned onto the main road, and Jack looked around nervously. Thankfully, no one was around to see him huddled there. The accented voice was speaking again, and he turned his attention back to the coach.

"...Never could control your temper, Edward. It's probably what cost you the woman in the first place. Calm yourself and think clearly...signatures can be forged, but even so, our endeavor will gain you far more than what her holdings are worth."

A sullen grunt from Dunnthorpe answered him, and the man sighed.

"I wonder if you're clear on the purpose of our venture -- it has nothing to do with your avenging yourself for perceived past wrongs. Now, the local military is hunting a sighted band of pirates, yes?"

Dunnthorpe grunted again. "Some 'John Swallow', or the like."

Jack rolled his eyes.

"Either way," the other went on, "I do believe that late tonight, the Contessa will have a most unfortunate meeting with these pirates. As will the others in her household." The man was practically purring now. "My men will handle everything. It will be suitably barbaric and horrific enough to be unmistakably the work of this 'Swallow' and his lot.

"You, my dear Baron, will receive the news tomorrow on you ship, and be understandably devastated, as befits a man who was just on the verge of reconciling with his estranged love. Naturally, you are so overwrought that you order your ship to make for home the very next day. A most exquisite idea, no?"

Highly exquisite. Jack felt ill.

"You're sure all you need is that ring?"

"As opposed to needing the woman as well...or her blood, or hair? No, there was never anything like that attached. But even so, the Contessa does have sisters, yes?"

Jack had heard enough. The next bump the wheels hit, he jumped down from the foot board and dove into the brush at the roadside. He waited for the sound of hoof beats to fade, then emerged, looking cautiously about.

Save for himself, the road was deserted. He glanced up at the sun. Close to noon buy the look of it.

Not much time -- Dunnthorpe's friend would be sending visitors in the late hours, he said. Jack wanted to be well away long before that. He turned and ran back up the road.

There was a stitch in his side by the time Jack reached the house, and he was certain his bare feet managed to find every sharp stone on the island. Sam and the stable man, Shem, were waiting for him at the door.

"Alright, Cap'n?"

"Is she still with AnaMaria?" Jack panted, leaning forward with his hands on his knees, trying to catch his breath.

"No," said Sam, "She's in a bad way, so her women took her upstairs."

_ Of course they did_, Jack thought bitterly, _up a bloody long staircase after a bloody long run_. But to Sam he instructed, "Go tell the others we're going. Today." He started up the stairs. "Get AnaMaria up and moving, and for God's sake, somebody find my clothes."

Reaching the top, he looked with some dismay at the many doors. Just as he was ready to start opening them at random, Hannah stepped through one, closing it quietly behind her. The matron's face was blotchy and tear streaked, but when he approached, she drew herself up, and glared like an angry dragon.

"You can't be up here!" she scolded, moving to block him.

"Is she in there?" Jack danced around the woman, and slipped into the room. He passed through the sitting room with Hannah in pursuit, and spotted his quarry seated on her bed through the second doorway.

"You're not going in there." Hannah declared, scuttling in front of him to firmly block his way.

Just as firmly, Jack lifted the woman by her upper arms, and set her to one side.

"We're leaving, Lady." he announced, and Miranda stared up dazedly from her bed. A flicker of pain crossed her face, then she bowed her head. Jack went to her window, peering restlessly through the curtains.

"Alright," she started in a shaky little voice, "I'll have medicines for you to take with you. Margret, you'll have to help me write out the dosages, and AnaMaria will need...she'll..."

"What?" Jack finally realized what she was saying. "No," he turned, and taking her by her hands, drew the Lady to her feet. "You can't fall to pieces now, girl. Look at me --" He tipped her chin up, forcing her to look.

"You'll have to bear my companions and me for a while longer, I fear...but not in this place."

He watched a desperate hope flare in her eyes, but it faded almost as quickly into shame, and worse - dull acceptance.

"You heard him, then." It wasn't a question.

Jack looked at her sympathetically. "Most of it." he confessed, and she flinched.

"I've decided to accept his purchasing terms, Captain. I will have word sent to his ship in the morning --"

"If he has his way, you'll be dead long before." he interrupted harshly. Margret gasped, and Hannah gave a startled yelp, hovering protectively near her mistress as Jack proceeded to repeat much of what he'd overheard on the back of the coach. He did leave out some of Dunnthorpe's more irrelevant comments, though.

Miranda said nothing, and only stared unblinkingly as the words poured out of him.

"And they mean to place the blame on you?" she asked finally when he'd finished.

"Aye, Lady. In a roundabout sort of way, that is."

She lifted her hand -- the left one, and studied it. "All for this?" He took her hand, turning it to see the cause of this present concern.

It was not the most prepossessing ring he'd ever set eyes on. A large, gold dome on a tall, gold setting. It seemed too large a thing for her small hand. After hearing what it was worth to the two conspirators, Jack felt somewhat disappointed -- not even a gemstone, or anything of the like. It looked ancient, somehow, and the surface of the dome was marred in the center with several gouges.

Then, Jack looked closer. Not gouges, but a deliberate carving in the the smooth surface...and several others inscribed on the thick band as well.

Even so, not a trinket he would have thought worth murdering one, much less several people for.

Then he remembered how many vessels and towns Barbossa had ordered destroyed on the chances of reclaiming a single Aztec coin at a time, and he shuddered.

"We'll puzzle out the why-fores later." he decided brusquely, "The first order is to survive long enough to do the puzzling, agreed?"

There was some life back in her again, Jack saw, and some resolve as well when she looked at him and said, "Agreed," in something far closer to the tones he'd come to know from her.

"Where are we going?" she wanted to know then.

"I haven't gotten that far yet," he admitted sheepishly, "But give it a moment." He returned to the window.

From up here he could see the glint of sunlight off the water, and the tiny specks that were the ships in the bay. One of those specks was the**_ Pearl_** -- and by now, Gillette and his own ship stood between them. The thought sent another chill through him.

The sound of plodding hoof beats reached him then, and at the same time, Shem bellowed up from the lower level.

"Bill's back, Margret."

"Go on." Miranda said gently to the girl, and the maid rushed away.

"That's a relief." Jack muttered. Now that Kursar was back as well, things could get moving. An idea was just beginning to coalesce in his mind. One that though audacious enough to work, was certain to raise some protests from certain quarters.

"Well, ladies?" he gestured after Margret, "Everybody'll be waiting on us, now.

.

.

* * *

.

.

Some minutes later, ten people managed to arrange themselves around the room Jack had occupied. AnaMaria, while still in that enormous borrowed nightshift, was at least on her feet. From her steely expression, it appeared she meant to stay that way.

Again, Jack retold what he'd overheard, studying the faces of his people carefully. Unsurprisingly, AnaMaria looked murderous. Less expected was Mr. Bottoms. Sam threw a tragic look at Miranda. He scowled, and flexed his arms in a show of belligerence. Kursar's face betrayed no emotion at all, but the sharp sound of his knuckles cracking made plain his feelings on the matter.

Only Joshamee Gibbs looked doubtful. His eyes continuously shifted from Jack to the Lady, and he looked less than happy to learn that she was to travel with them. Even so, he was the first to ask for orders.

"You'll love this one, Joshamee," Jack grinned, "You and Mr. Kursar here are to scurry back to shore, and under cover of dark, borrow yourselves a boat and get back to the ship."

Gibbs blinked. "Is that all?" he asked, rather sarcastically, Jack thought.

"They barely got a look at either of you," he reassured the Quartermaster, "Remember, the soldiers were fairly hell-bent on _my_ head."

Gibbs didn't look reassured. "Then you'll be following us?"

"Not quite. You'll have to crowd on sail and get her up to speed. We should meet up in another day or so."

"Where are we picking you up, then?" Jacks smile grew wider. "The same as last time."

"**_Are you mad?_**"

Jack managed to look injured. Gibbs was sputtering, his face reddened, his side whiskers actually bristling.

"Yes, he is."

They all turned to AnaMaria. Her eyes were fixed on Jack with grudging admiration.

"Like the fox." she went on, "It's that new ship of theirs, right? It's out here -- on _this_ side of the island looking for us. They'll never expect him to show up in Port Royal."

"Aye," Gibbs interjected sourly, "Right where the King's Warship is at anchor," he reminded them. "With about a hundred guns, an' a couple hundred men on board to work 'em. And what about those guns at the fort?"

"The **_Black Pearl_** can run circles 'round that **_Dauntless_** of theirs, even in a dead calm." AnaMaria insisted.

"And you'll not have to bring her into the harbor, mate," Jack added. "Just get close enough, and I'll handle the rest." He leaned back against the window ledge, crossing his arms. "Just like last time."

His first mate made a face. "Well, not _just_ like that. Don't think I'm up for swimming that far right now."

Jack gave her a consoling look. That couldn't have been an easy admission for the strong willed girl to make. From Sam's expression, the lad thought the same.

"I'm thinking the lady won't be up for that either," he said slowly, "So if the Cap'n says aye, I'm of a mind to scout out someone or something to ferry us over once we're there."

"The Captain most certainly does." Jack agreed. "Alright, Mr. Bottoms, you're in charge of our travel arrangements again."

Sam beamed proudly.

"Now," Jack went on, "Does anybody see a problem with this?"

Gibbs looked like he had plenty, but his lips tightened, and he held his tongue. Then, Kursar lifted his head.

"Straight up the middle, then? Thumbin' our noses at cutthroats on one side, and the Royal Navy on the other?" The normally taciturn cooper's seamed face split in a devious grin. "I like it."

"So you truly mean to go through with this?" someone asked.

Jack looked up.

Hannah had spoken. Not to him, but to her mistress. "You're going to trust your lift to the likes of him -- to a pirate? You've no idea what he might be capable of!"

Miranda was staring fast at him, her face as enigmatic as any statues. He would have given a lot to know what was going on in her head just then.

"I know what Edward is capable of, Hannah." she said at last with finality. "I prefer to choose the unknown."

Not the most ardent declaration of trust, but Jack brought his hands together before him, and bowed slightly. He was rewarded by a faint spark of humor in otherwise unreadable eyes, and she inclined her head regally.

"Well then..." Hannah brushed at her skirts, and drew herself up. "Well -- Margret and I will gather our things for the voyage."

Jack started up from the ledge, ready to protest. Difficult enough, what he was proposing, but if the Lady insisted on bringing along a personal retinue.

"Yes, go and fetch your things." the Lady said in a gentle voice, "And then I want the both of you to get yourselves to Widow Nesbitt's house. You'll stay with her until this danger is past."

The two women erupted into protests, but she stilled them with a raised hand. "I'll not hear more on this." she said sternly, "You've never been to sea, Margret. And Hannah, you were so ill on your last crossing, you never emerged from your cabin."

"But...but you can't go unattended," Hannah exclaimed, voice climbing higher in her agitation, "It's -- it's not seemly!"

Sam choked back a laugh. The lad covered his mouth to disguise his humor.

"But I will have an attendant." Miranda crossed the room to stand before AnaMaria. "You're taller than she is," she noted, "But not as filled out. Margret, I'll have to ask to borrow one of your gowns."

"Of course, Milady." the girl agreed, startled, and AnaMaria looked worried.

"It'll be fine." Miranda told her, patting her dark hand. "Now, if you'll excuse me, I _will_ need to prepare a few things."

"Not your entire wardrobe, if you don't mind." Jack called after the three departing women. Miranda glanced back ever her shoulder, and the look she gave him was remarkably mischievous.

He shook his head, then addressed her men. "My two here will be wanting a lift closer to shore."

Bill and Shem looked at each other.

"Your help with the coach hitches when I get back?" the stable man said finally, and Bill nodded.

"Though I figured I'd get started on those, anyway." the younger man admitted, and Shem clapped him on the shoulder.

"I'll throw in a hand." Sam spoke up. He glanced at Jack, and added sheepishly, "About to climb out of my skin if I don't have somethin' to do, Cap'n."

"Go with him, then." Jack said with approval. Shem considered the gunner thoughtfully, and after a moment, clapped him on the shoulder too.

"Good lad." he said gruffly, and that trio filed out. "I'll be out front." Shem called back.

This left Jack with those who'd been with him ever since he'd sailed from Tortuga with Will Turner aboard the commandeered **_Interceptor_**.

"You've got about five hours of daylight still," he reminded Gibbs and Kursar, "So keep your heads down until dark."

"Yes, mother." said Kursar in his usual laconic way.

Jack snorted, and faced AnaMaria. "Feel up to playing at Lady's maid, lass?"

She scowled mightily, but then lifted one shoulder in a shrug.

"She's got it right, you know. A dress, and one of those stupid caps...no one will look twice at me."

"Only those without eyes, luv." he said impudently, and AnaMaria gave him a tolerant smile.

Jack turned to his bed. His freshly laundered clothes were folded in a neat pile next to his hat, and the box that held whatever had been in his pockets. He picked through the last in a show of checking the contents, but his mind was on a far weightier matter.

"You've got the look of someone who has something to say, Joshamee."

The Quartermaster's silence lengthened uncomfortably.

"Well, man," Jack started, still moving items around in the box, "You're not in the navy anymore, speak your mind."

"Well, it's just...we're not --" Gibbs stumbled, "It's not that I'm not grateful to the lass, but..."

Jack turned to him. The older man was red faced again. This time, it was embarrassment.

"Go on." Jack urged, keeping his voice neutral.

"We've got no dogs in this fight, Jack." Gibbs said helplessly. "I think you're takin' an awful chance with this plan 'o yourn. And the men'll want to know why we're bringin' on a passenger -- And don't glare at me, girl!" he barked suddenly, "You know I'm right."

AnaMaria said nothing. She only fixed Gibbs with a look that had quailed many a man. Himself included, Jack remembered ruefully. Kursar, as usual, was inscrutable.

"Do you trust me, Mr. Gibbs?" Jack asked finally, and Joshamee looked dismayed.

" --Jack..." he said placatingly, but Jack lifted his hand.

"It's a simple question."

Gibbs sighed, his shoulders slumping. "Aye, Jack. Ye know I do. And the rest 'o the men as well." He spread his hands. "It's just that..."

"I know, mate. But think on this for a while: What makes such an insignificant little bauble worth as much as that pair was claiming, eh? There's something much bigger here, I'm thinking, and besides," he threw a commradely arm around the fellow's shoulder, and used that to steer him towards the door. "Last time I rescued a fair damsel in distress, it didn't turn out half bad, did it?"

Gibbs pursed his lips in consideration. "Aye, that it didn't." he conceded.

"Alright then. You two get yourselves back amongst friends, and make sure you're there when I need you."

"We will be." Kursar stated firmly, nudging the other man to follow after him.

AnaMaria was last to go, making mention of getting her gear ready. Then she stopped before him, her face somber.

"She's a good woman." AnaMaria avowed with conviction, then departed before giving him a chance to answer.

Jack closed the door quietly after her, and leaned against it.

"I know," he said aloud to himself. "That's part of the problem."

He closed his eyes, suddenly feeling drained. "Must be gettin' old." he mused, then shook his head a moment later and stripped out of his borrowed clothing, gladly resuming his worn, familiar garb. Only difference was that his clothes looked cleaner now than even when he'd first acquired them. The Lady's laundress must be one very determined woman, he decided wryly.

All at once, Jack was hit by another wave of that drained, weakened feeling.

"Oh, God..." he groaned, leaning heavily against the bed frame, "Not now."

In all the excitement, he'd forgotten about his own illness. He finished dressing in haste, all the while mindful of the suns position in the sky, and the sure knowledge that they were running out of time. 


	10. Chapter9

LOL! Just for you, Saxony! Here we go again with...

**

Chapter 9

**  
  
As modes of transportation went, Jack found that coach travel wasn't proving to be high on his list of favorites. There was a kind of rickety monotony to it, and while he had spent most of his life on the constantly moving deck of a ship, he found this kind of motion somewhat disturbing. The interior was dark, making the space seem smaller that it was. And it was very warm. The day was still, with not even the hint of a breeze moving the air.

Although, he thought with a look at his traveling companion, perhaps a confined, warm, dark space wasn't the worst thing in the world.

Across from him, the Lady Warringford stared out of the window. With her chin resting lightly on her hand, she was outwardly a model of calm. However, there was a worried little crease between her brow, and her free hand clenched tightly at a fold of her skirt. Judging from this, Jack doubted that her eyes even saw the view that rolled past them.

"There's no sense you dwelling on it, you know." he said finally, startling the Lady from her thoughts, "Your men know what to do. We planned it all out." Then, with a tight smile, he added, "His Lordship should be in for a nasty disappointment, come morning."

Miranda straightened. "I hadn't heard." she admitted.

Jack wasn't surprised. While he'd been in hasty, whispered conference with the men of Warringford Manor, she had been lost in a cluster of weeping women. Hannah had been particularly distraught, clinging to her mistress, and carrying on as though she never expected to see her again.

It seemed to take forever, but at last the two coaches were underway -- the one bearing himself and the Lady driven by Shem, and the second with AnaMaria and Sam handled by young Jaime Hutton, the groundskeeper's son.

"Let's just say that if all goes well, your good people won't have to tangle with Dunnthorpe's friends at all."

"God willing.'" Miranda said quietly.

"I suppose so," he replied casually, "Though I'd put more stock in the King's Navy."

Her face was mildly reproachful. She returned to her abstracted study of the landscape, and Jack repressed a sigh. He had to hand it to the Lady... he felt far better now, than in the entire time he'd spent on this island. Distracted though she was, Jack still couldn't hide his illness from her sharp eyes, and the doubly strong (and doubly foul tasting!) dose of medicine she'd forced on him had stopped his renewed fever in its tracks.

However, looking back it may have been a mistake on his part to ask Miranda for something to 'keep him going'. She'd come back with a strong sort of tea that while banishing that sense of weakness and clearing the cobwebs from his brain, had also left him wide awake and restless. There was nothing to do now, but feel his backside go numb with sitting, and Jack was bored.

"So tell me about this ring of yours." he said after they'd rattled on for another mile or so.

She frowned, and studied her hand. "There's not much I can tell. It's been in my mother's line for as long as her family's existed. It got passed down from mother to daughter, in fact --" She held out her hand and pointed to the symbols on the gold band. "That's Greek. A very old form of it, as a matter of fact. Older than the biblical Greek, even."

"Can you read it, then?" Jack asked, and she shook her head.

"It's not the same language I learned. But mother told me that it read _"From Daughter to Daughter, Until the Coming of the Lands End._"

Jack frowned too. "Until the Coming of...Lands End?" he repeated, "What's that supposed to mean?"

"I don't know...maybe 'until the end of time', or some such. But, who can tell?"

"And what about those marking on the dome?" Jack pointed to her finger, "What's that symbol supposed to mean?" She actually smiled, then. "I don't know, but that's not the real puzzle. Look at this..."So saying, she took the ring from her finger, and pressed her nail into the bezel. Jack heard a small '_click_', and she lifted the ring for him to see.

"You've heard of poisoning rings? Well, this is a bit different. It startled the wits out of me the first time I discovered that. I thought I'd broken it, and Mother was just as surprised." But then a strange look crossed her face. "At least, I thought she was surprised by it, but now..." She shook her head, and passed her ring to him.

He took it from her, holding it up to the light. The golden dome was a cover -- a lid set on the tiniest of hinges, and beneath it was a gemstone.

On closer inspection, this too proved to be something of a disappointment. It was a large, pale blue gem whose shape mimicked the form of its cover, but the stone wasn't even faceted. There was nothing about it to indicate any kind of great value. The stone reflected the light sullenly, as if it resented the intrusion. It was a goodly size, nearly as big as his thumbnail, and a perfect oval in shape. Like the dome that covered it, the smooth surface was broken by scratches too regular to be anything but deliberate. He squinted, then stared at the carving on the gold cap. The marking there proved to be a kind of stylized hand. Above and below were other symbols, and one of them most surely had to mean water. Nearly every culture Jack had ever been exposed to used some form of waving lines to represent that element. The one above the hand could be some sort of cloud shape, but...

"What are all these scratches here supposed to be?" he asked, again angling the ring to see the stone.

"Look again, Captain. That's some form of writing."

Indeed it was, but the symbols were so tiny as to be near impossible to see.

"I've not been able to make those out." Miranda was saying, "It's not the same kind of writing that's on the band." She shifted in her seat. "Mother told me a story once, about the ring being taken before the Oracle of Delphi -- that's a soothsayer the ancient Greeks believed carried messages from the Sun God -- and that it was this Oracle that gave the words about passing it 'from daughter to daughter'."

"Hmmm..." Jack turned the ring over and over in his fingers. "Did this Oracle have anything else to say on the subject?" He held the ring out to her.

"Only what I've told you." Miranda closed the domed lid. The latch caught clearly with a '_snap_', and she placed it back on her finger. "Now, if you don't mind, I have a question for you, Captain."

Jack grinned. "Only one, Lady?"

She leaned forward, face serious, and at the same time, wary again.

"Why are you doing this?"

He'd wondered when she would ask that one. It had to have occurred to her that she may be trading one bad situation for another.

"Maybe I thought you'd make a useful bargaining tool for getting me off this island." he offered, "Or that it might be a good idea to keep you and that helpful bag of medicines in easy reach until my crewmen and I are up to snuff?"

"Well, then you'd certainly be going about this in the most difficult way." she pointed out, and her voice was guarded again.

"Path of least resistance, luv. We've already determined that." He wasn't sure why he was deliberately putting her back on guard. By all rights, he should have told her any number of tales to further ingratiate himself to her.

"Perhaps you're merely intrigued by whatever this might lead to?" the Lady inquired, holding up her ring hand again.

"Could be part of it." Jack acknowledged. Then, with a sigh he went on, "Could also be that I...owe you. For _my_ life, if not AnaMaria's

"Or maybe it's because my First Mate tells me that you are, in fact, a good woman."

He wasn't sure why he'd included the last, even though it was the truth. The admission made him uncomfortable -- exposed. But her green eyes softened then, and her smile was almost shy. He gave her a brief smile in return, and tipped his hat down to cover his face.

"Do us a favor, luv, and wake me up when we reach this inn of yours."

But he didn't manage to nod off once, and the miles dragged on.  
.

.

.

* * *

.

.

Night found the two coaches drawn up before a pleasant roadside inn. The quality of the place implied that it catered mainly to the wealthier merchant classes that traveled from port to port.

"Ah, Lady Warringford," the innkeeper greeted effusively, "So good to have you with us again." The fussy little man looked around with some apprehension. "Your fine matron isn't with you this evening?"

"No, Goodman Wolsely, I'm afraid Hannah is feeling under the weather." Miranda replied in a voice so flatly neutral that Jack stared at her. "There will be six of us needing rooms for the night, and I'd like to have the baths filled."

The innkeeper eyed the group with some distaste. "Would your servants not be more comfortable boarding with others of their station?"

She gave him a long, steady look, and the man cleared his throat nervously.

"Of course, Lady. Three rooms, and I'll have the porters bring your trunks and show you upstairs. Will the Lady require anything else?"

"Yes, Goodman, have dinner sent up, and I'll require food and stableing for my horses. We'll be departing in the morning."

"Of course, Lady." he said again, hand outstretched to receive the coins she deposited there.

"What was that all about?" Jack asked quietly when she took his arm and followed a porter up to the rooms.

"Wolsely has the best kept inn on this road," she said just loud enough for his ears, "But the man is a terrible snob, and an even worse gossip. The last time I stayed here, he was overheard telling another boarder how shamelessly scandalous he thought is was that a... that a woman of my reputation should show her face in public."

Jack had no idea how to respond to this. He couldn't help but laugh, though, when she added almost as an aside, "So Hannah tried to brain him with his own registry."

"I could see that from her." he chuckled approvingly.

"Oh, I was far worse, if you can imagine." Miranda confided with a wicked smile he found quite appealing, "I demanded three room changes for a single nights stay, used more of his candles than any five boarders, tipped his staff outrageously, snubbed him thoroughly the next day, and generally made myself a headache for him."

"A bit subtle, maybe." said Jack, "I'd have just stolen his money box and set fire to his roof. Though I guess this explains why all these lads are dancing in attendance." He gestured at the eager faced band of porters all carrying various trunks and boxes into the room the women would share. "I thought we'd agreed you'd not weigh us down with so much cargo."

"I don't recall agreeing to anything of the sort." Miranda said airily, then burst into laughter, "Oh, the look on your face!"

He lost track of whatever he'd planned to say, for the little minx had charmed him again. What made it all the worse, he thought, was that she was probably completely unaware of it.

"It's you who'll have to trust me now." she told him with mock seriousness.

The small army of porters emerged, all with identical expressions of hopefulness. She dispensed coins and murmured thanks in equal amounts, and waited for AnaMaria to preceed her into their room.

Jack fought to keep a bland front as his First Mate approached looking every inch the proper lady's maid. From the look on her dark face, AnaMaria hadn't forgotten his initial reaction to the sight of her in gown, apron, and cap.

Nor had she forgiven him, it appeared, for as she passed him in the narrow corridor, the heel of her shoe quite deliberately -- and heavily -- found the top of his left foot, and he stifled a cry of pain.

Wide eyed, Miranda watched her pass, then turned back to Jack.

"I'm afraid you deserved that." she told him solemnly.

His lips still tightly compressed , Jack gave her a brusque nod, and limped into his room, dragging the tattered remains of his dignity behind him.

"I'll be along shortly with your evening dose." she called after him.

Jack slammed the door. It didn't manage to block out the sound of her laughter.

He shared a relatively quiet dinner with Sam -- and with what seemed like an endless line of men and women streaming inland out of the open door bearing buckets of steaming water into the small chamber attached to the main room. Another steady stream passed back and forth through the corridor taking the same to the other two rooms, Jack presumed. Overcome with curiosity, Sam ducking into the bath chamber. He came out a moment later, shaking his head.

"There's two of them tubs in there, Cap'n. They've got drains in the floor and everything." He shook his head again.

"Landfolk are an odd lot." Jack said sagely. "I hope you were done with your meal, son, because one of those bucketmen just made off with your plate." He pushed his own tray back. It was swept up a moment later by another departing 'bucketman'.

"I'm done." Sam said, "And so are they, I think." he added as the last water carrier departed the room, closing the door behind him. The gunner shrugged, and started peeling off his clothing. "Might as well not waste it." he remarked, disappearing behind the bathroom door.

From the muffled hissing sounds Jack heard next, the water must still be rather hot. He rolled his eyes and pulled off his boots. He had just risen in preparation to remove the rest of his garb, when there was a faint knock at the door.

Jack huffed a sigh and stormed over, growling out, "We don't need any bloody more water!"

He threw open the door, and a cup was thrust into his face.

"No," Miranda said smoothly, "But you do need this."

"Sorry." he apologized, taking it from her hand. He downed about half the contents in a single gulp, then wrinkled his nose at the taste. She'd tried to sweeten it some, but it was still awful.

"How much longer am I going to have to drink this?" he asked with some feeling.

"Let me see..." the Lady looked to be doing some calculations in her head. "That's three times a day for...two more days - three at the outmost."

He made a face, and Miranda arched an eyebrow. "Best to stay out of swamps then, Captain."

Jack frowned. "But I haven't been in any swamps. Not in the last few years, at least."

She looked confused. "Then how did you catch malaria if you -- oh never mind, I'm too tired to think about it now." She glanced over his shoulder. "Where's young Mr. Bottoms gone to?"

"Oh, he's just --" Jack began, when he heard a distinct "plunk", followed by a muffled "Damn". "Just...looking for the soap, I imagine." he finished lamely, eliciting a snicker from the Lady.

"I'll have some things for the both of you to wear when we're ready to leave, come morning, so if you'd please let him know." She reached up, fingernails clicking off of the bone ornament in his hair. "You'll have to take this out again, though. It won't fit."

He leaned closer. "I'm guessing you're not going to give me any kind of hint as to why?"

"A woman is entitled to some secrets, Captain."

"Can't argue that." he conceded.

"Captain?"

"Hmmm?" Jack stepped nearer.

She held his eyes, though a slow flush rose in her cheeks. "That medicine's not doing any good in the cup."

"What? Oh..." he tossed back the remaining liquid. "I sort of hoped you'd forgotten." he said with a shudder, returning the cup. One side of her mouth lifted.

"No such luck. Go wash."

"Aren't you going to come in and wash my back for me?" he asked, not quite innocently. Much to his surprise, she placed a hand directly into the center of his chest, and pushed him at arm's length back into his room.

"Good evening, Captain Sparrow."

"Tuck me in? Read me a bedtime story?" he went on, not bothering to resist her.

"Good evening, Captain Sparrow." she repeated in a voice shaking with suppressed mirth, and backed out, drawing the door to close before her.

"Good night, Lady." he called after, grinning. A fine mood she was in, he thought. Himself as well, for that matter. The knowledge that he would soon be back to his fine ship with most of his crew intact had done a lot to improve his temper. And he could only attribute Miranda's playfulness to something along similar lines -- an escape from a most unwanted situation. A shame it probably wouldn't last once shipboard.

"More's the pity." he commented, and heard splashing from the bath chamber. "I'm coming in, Sam." he called out, and got as response the sound of draining water.

"I'm out, Cap'n. 'S all yours." Sam yelled back, and the boy emerged moments later, holding up his britches, and a towel draped over his head.

"That was fast." Jack noted.

"Wasn't that dirty." the gunner shrugged, then yawned mightily.

"I'm right with you in that, son." he admitted, feeling his jaws crack with his own yawn. "I'll just dunk these old bones first."

"Mrrph..." he heard Sam mumble, and when he looked back, the lad was already face down on one of the beds.

Not long after, Jack claimed the other bed with a groan. It had been a very long day. He dropped of almost as soon as his head hit the pillow.

It felt like only a few minutes had gone by when he was jarred to wakefulness again. He lay there, mind a sleepy haze, and focused on the night candle burning on the bed stand. It had lost nearly half its height. Several hours had in fact passed.

Then, he heard it -- a high, thin wail from the other side of the wall.

He jumped from the bed, heading for the door, and pausing only to grab up his sword. Behind him, he heard Sam's feet hit the floor. Jack didn't wait, but rushed out into the dim hallway. "AnaMaria?" he called out, his hand already on her door latch, "Miranda!" The door wasn't locked. It swung wide and he started in --

--And froze in the doorway, hands upraised.

Perched on the edge of the bed, AnaMaria pulled up her arm and released her breath in a shaken rush. Her pistol had been aimed at his heart.

Her other arm was wrapped around Miranda. The Lady's face was buried in the girl's shoulder, her body shuddering with muffled sobs.

"It's alright," AnaMaria said, though still shaken, "It's just a bad dream."

Jack wasn't sure if she was speaking to himself, or to Miranda, but the Lady raised her head. He caught a glimpse of her anguished, tear streaked face, then she hid it again.

"I'm sorry!" she wept brokenly, "I'm sorry -- I'm..."

"Shhh..." AnaMaria patted her shoulder awkwardly, "It's alright, now."

These words she directed at Jack, and he realized with some bitterness that he was not wanted here.

"Lock the door." he said shortly, and waited out in the hallway until he heard the bolt slide home. He returned to his bed with his sword still in his hand, and a hard knot in his stomach. The night candle was considerably lower by the time sleep claimed him again. 


	11. Chapter10

And just because I'm feeling particularly insane at the moment, here's another chapter on the same day.

As always, please R&R...I'm feeling like I've lost a couple of readers, here...not many of you are giving me feedback.

I feel a pout coming on...

Ah well, place standard disclaimer that I don't own the established characters here.

Much too boring...on with the show!  
  
**

Chapter 10

**  
  
"Another one over here, sir!"

Lieutenant Nilsen urged his horse to the hailing voice, feeling a surge of frustration. This would be the seventh body found thus far this morning, and none of them belonging to the man he hunted. In all honesty, Nilsen admitted to himself, it had been a mistake to get his expectations up. But when word had come to him late last evening, Nilsen had leapt at the chance that it could be the band of pirates.

And so it had been a band of pirates. The clothing on these corpses gave them away as men of the sea. Only these were not the right ones. Not a single man among them resembled Sparrow, nor any of the hastily glimpsed men accompanying him.

For one, these six -- now seven bodies were all remarkable similar. Each was dark haired and olive skinned, though whether Italian or Spaniard, Nilsen couldn't tell.

And for another, all of these men had been exceedingly well armed. More so than what he might have expected, This was looking less like a band of sea-roaving brigands caught in the act, becoming far more sinister instead.

"Lieutenant Nilsen."

He turned. Captain Gillette was approaching up the main path, guiding his horse alongside a well appointed coach.

"A word, if you please." Gillette called. Nilsen had no choice but to turn his mount to meet him.

"A good thing I decided to accompany his Lordship this morning," Gillette nodded at the coach, "Your men weren't going to let him onto the grounds."

"Precautionary measures, sir." Nilsen bristled inwardly at the implied reprimand. "It's not certain that all of these criminals have been accounted for."

"How many have you discovered?"

"Seven so far, sir. All dead."

"What in the world happened here?" Lord Dunnthorpe demanded, thrusting his face through the coach window, "And where is the Lady Warringford?"

"One of the Countess' men rode into town last night with a report of a band of strangers loitering near the property." Nilsen explained, "He was suspicious, and came to alert us and ask for assistance. By the time my men and I arrived, they were ready to move on the house. We waited until the thieves had committed themselves to gaining entry, then moved in." He looked gravely at Gillette. "I lost three of my men, sir. And another five injured."

"Yourself as well, I see." the Captain pointed out, indicating the bandage around Nilsen's forehead.

He shrugged. "Only a near miss, sir. The Countess' maid has some skill as a nurse."

"And where is the Countess now?" Dunnthorpe demanded again with an impatient edge to his voice.

"Thankfully, the Lady wasn't in residence when the attack took place. According to Mr. Radburn -- the fellow who alerted us -- she decided to accompany a friend on a voyage." Nilsen was looking straight at the nobleman as he reported this, and therefore could not miss the angry chagrin that flashed across Dunnthorpe's face. This was quickly concealed a moment later by a look of tender concern.

"Thank God she wasn't exposed to this." his Lordship said with profound emotion, "She's always been such a fragile creature." He paused, then addressed Nilsen again. "Did her man have anything to say about where she might have sailed to?"

"You'd have to ask Mr. Radburn, I'm afraid. He and his wife are still tending to our wounded." Nilsen turned his horse. "This way."

"Bad luck, Edward." Captain Gillette said consolingly, "And you only just saw her yesterday. She must have forgotten to mention her travel plans."

"You know how women can be." Dunnthorpe replied with what sounded to Nilsen's ears to be forced casualness.

Nilsen led them to the front of the house, where his men were being treated for their various injuries.

"As you were." Gillette called when some would have risen to attention. Nilsen introduced them to Bill Radburn and his wife Margret, who was busily stitching up the leg of Midshipman Norris. Two other girls were bustling about with trays of foodstuffs for his tired men, for which Nilsen was profoundly grateful. He heard Captain Gillette commend the young Mr. Radburn on his quick thinking in calling the Navy's attention to his plight, and then Lord Dunnthorpe's renewed calls as to the whereabouts of the absent Countess.

"The Lady Warringford will have put to sea by now." Radburn said readily, but something in his tone made Nilsen look sharply at him.

The young man was eying Dunnthorpe with barely concealed hostility. His wife, putting the finishing bandages on Norris, joined him with an equal expression of dislike.

"But where had my dear girl gone to?" His Lordship's voice had the artificial sound of someone trying to sound concerned instead of outraged.

"Mr. Radburn." Gillette snapped shortly when no answer was forthcoming, "The Baron asked you a question."

"Bill --" the man's wife said soothingly, then looked to the nobleman. "The **_Silver Gull_** will have already departed Port Maria for the South China Sea. I'm afraid it won't be back in these waters for several months."

"Port Maria?" Gillette echoed dubiously, "How did you get back so quickly if the Lady only departed yesterday?"

"She and her attendant departed yesterday." Mrs. Radburn corrected stiffly, "My husband left the day before to see that the Lady's things were properly loaded aboard ship."

Nilsen studied the nobleman's face as he took in this information. From the way his jaw clenched, it was most certainly not what he wanted to hear. Consequently, Nilsen's eyes were still on Dunnthorpe when the call went up behind him.

"We've got a live one, Lieutenant!" was the excited cry, and for an instant, Dunnthorpe looked fearful. Nilsen had just enough time to note this before his Lordship marshaled his visage into one of keen interest.

"Finally, some answers now." Gillette said.

Nilsen was already urging his mount to where two of his soldiers waved for his attention. He dismounted, and made his way through the low bushes.

"I don't think he'll last long, sir." one of the red clad men stated grimly. From the looks of this eighth find, the assessment was all too true. The dying man, laying in a pool of blood, was partially hidden under the shrubs. No wonder it had taken this long to find him. More blood ran from the corners of his mouth, and there was a ragged, wheezing with every labored breath.

"Who did you sail with?" Nilsen demanded harshly, "What is your Captain's name?" The criminal's dark eyes cast vacantly about. Nilsen swore under his breath. It was probably too late to get anything useful out of this one, but he tried another track.

"What were you trying to find here - answer me. Who sent you?"

The man's ashen face turned to him, bloodless lips drawing back in a morbid grin. The glazed eyes focused on Nilsen with derision.

"Talk, man!" Nilsen urged, "There may still be time to help you." But the only reply was a low, thready sound that he recognized with a chill as laughter.

The horrible sound went on, the pirate leering like a death's head. One of the soldiers crossed himself furtively. Though raised Protestant himself, Nilsen was tempted to do the same.

The pirate's body convulsed suddenly with a great, tearing cough. A dark gout of blood erupted out of his mouth, and then the spasming body relaxed with a long, rattling sigh. The mocking eyes now stared blankly into the sky.

"Sorry, sir." the unnerved soldier said as Nilsen drove his fist into his palm, "If we'd just found him sooner..."

"Round up all the bodies." Nilsen instructed. "See if Mr. Radburn will allow us the use of a wagon. I want these men thoroughly searched. Maybe we'll learn something from their clothing."

"Yes sir." He remounted and rode back to Captain Gillette, who was in conversation with Lord Dunnthorpe when he reached them.

"Sorry to hear that, Edward. If you're feeling up to it later, perhaps you'll come and dine with myself and my officers tonight."

"Perhaps I will at that, Fredrick." the nobleman replied in a weary voice, shaking hands with Gillette. He tapped on the roof of the coach, and the driver flicked the reigns, guiding the matched team to the road.

"The poor man's taken ill, I'm afraid." Gillette explained. "Now, I'd like a full report on just what took place here."

Nilsen told him, but while his mouth rattled off all the details, his mind was busy sifting through pieces of what was turning into a very confusing puzzle.

Lord Dunnthorpe had visited the Lady Warringford only yesterday morning, and the Lady had subsequently left for her ship not long after, missing by hours an attack on her home by a band of men who preferred death to capture.

The openly hostile way in which Radburn and his wife regarded the nobleman was also disturbing -- it didn't go along with the fondness for their mistress Dunnthorpe was trying to project. And for that matter, Nilsen found Dunnthorpe's own behavior quite suspect.

Too many pieces didn't fit together. Right now, Nilsen wanted nothing more than for the good Captain Gillette to ride back to his ship, and leave him to carry out his investigation in peace.

He wondered then, with a rare surge of humor, if somehow Jack Sparrow would turn out to be involved in this mystery as well.  
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"It's changed so much." Miranda remarked, looking out at the sprawling town outside her window.'

"Eh?"

She looked up at her traveling companion, then back to the mass of structures. "Kingstown. I don't remember so many buildings the last time I was here."

"Cities grow, luv." Captain Sparrow said with a shrug. "They call this one 'Kings_ton_, nowadays. And this harbor's had more than it's fair share of success. Something about that always brings people flocking."

"You sound as if you don't approve, Captain." she observed with interest. The pirate only shrugged again.

"Give me the open seas. Less clutter."

This was said with such conviction that Miranda had to smile. She forced herself to look stern a moment later when his hand lifted towards his head.

"Don't scratch." she warned, "You'll turn your wig all askew again. And leave your beard alone." she added when he reached instead for his chin.

"I don't know how I let you talk me into this." he growled, dropping the offending hand into his lap. "This itching will drive me mad."

"But you _do_ look splendid, Captain." Miranda said coyly. He glared at her, but then his dour expression brightened.

"Do I now?" he asked with a sudden grin. "Well, well..." He ran a finger over his mustache. "We may want to talk about that."

She narrowed her eyes at him. The transformation of Captain Sparrow hadn't been an easy one, but the results were, she felt, well worth the effort. If anything, than simply for the look on AnaMaria's face when she saw him decked out in his borrowed finery.

He had argued no end about the beard, refusing to shave, or to cut the two braids that dangled from his chin. In the end, Miranda had coiled them up under his jaw, where she'd fixed them out of sight with melted candle wax. A procedure that had the pirate squirming, and the both of them swearing at each other. Combing some of his shorter facial hair down to disguise the resulting knot had made the end product fairly convincing -- at least, as long as Sparrow didn't tip his head back too far.

His hair had almost been the end of her, though. Most men who affected the use of wigs had their own hair close cropped. The pirate's hair was not only long, but there was also quite a bit of it. She'd bound it back as best she could, and ended up having to cut a few of the seams in the dark haired, full bottomed wig that was now one of Captain Sparrow's sources of discomfort.

He complained that the white hose made his legs itch, and that the shoes pinched his feet. The tastefully embroidered coat was too tight across the shoulders, and the cravat was strangling him.

Other than that, he had strutted about like a peacock in the fine clothing she'd brought for him, and was actually rather taken with the large, heavily feathered and richly embroidered hat that went with the ensemble.

On the whole, the effect was quite striking. With his dark eyes and tanned skin, Miranda felt that he just might pass as an affluent Italian gentleman.

_A very handsome Italian gentleman_, that clinical voice in her mind smirked at her, and she felt her face grow warm.

"Well?" Sparrow demanded, "I didn't get much of a chance to see these fancy rags you threw at me before you hustled us out of good Master Wolsley's fine establishment." He drew himself up in his seat, and affected a regal pose. "How does it look?"

"Truthfully?" she asked, arching a brow. He nodded, still grinning impishly.

Miranda lifted her hand, giving him the same negligent gesture he'd thrown her way only days ago, and deliberately mimicked his way of speech. "I liked the other look better."

He pouted -- there was really no other way to describe the expression! But then he lowered his lids and regarded her in a smoldering kind of way that made her heart skip a beat. "We may just want to talk about that instead, luv." he said in a very low voice, and once again, that strange thrill ran through her.

She was saved from having to think of a worthy response, for Shem brought the coach to a halt just then.

"I'm afraid it will have to wait, Captain Sparrow. I do believe we've reached the ferry." She leaned out the window. Kingstown -- _Kingston_ -- Harbor looked to be quite busy for this time of year. Ships of all kinds were moored at the docks, or rested at anchor. A massive, square-rigged Indiaman shared space with its comparatively fragile seeming berth mate, a fore-and-aft rigged schooner.

She leaned further, straining to read the name of the Indiaman, and found it was not one she recognized.

Shem jumped down from his seat, opening the door on the other side. Captain Sparrow was all too eager to exit the confines of the coach. After spending an extended amount of time forced to sit in one place, Miranda was relieved to stretch her legs as well.

"Milady." the pirate said with a mocking flourish, offering her a hand down. He remained close at her side when she went to pay the man who would transport them over.

Only when both coaches were safely aboard and the ferry on its way across the harbor did she allow herself to truly look ahead to their destination.

Port Royal drew nearer with every passing second, as did her growing tension. This was the last stop -- the final step before she knowingly placed her life into the hands of this charming stranger who also happened to be a known criminal.

Hugging herself tightly, Miranda stared out over the water.

"Having second thoughts, Lady?" Sparrow asked, stepping up beside her.

She glanced quickly in his direction. "You've already gained a reputation as something of a magician, Captain, have you decided to add mind reading to your repatoire now ?" Then, she regretted her tone. A night of bad dreams and interrupted sleep had made her waspish. She had Edward to thank for this as well.

Sparrow only chuckled softly. "Not quite. You just have that look about you." He stood so near his arm brushed her shoulder as he swayed with the motion of the ferry.

"Still prefer the unknown?"

"I'm here, am I not?"

"Aye, Lady. That you are."

She heard him draw a deep breath, then slowly release it. "Though it would be nice to know that your goodwill might last. I'd be very disappointed if you suddenly took it into your head to start screaming my name out to a troop of marines."

Miranda lifted her eyes to him. "That won't happen." she said bluntly. "Will you take my word on it, sir?"

He considered her for a time, and the calculation in his look was far more unnerving to her than even his intrusive nearness. "Yes...I do think you honestly mean it," he said finally, brushing his shoulder against her again, "At least, for now." He only seemed amused by her sharp frown.

"You ladies are known to change your minds as often as you feel the need to change your dresses." he pointed out.

"Perhaps the Captain has only known women who are incapable of adhering to their promises?" she asked tartly, the palm of her hand suddenly itching to slap that smug, knowing smirk off of his face.

"Perhaps." he agreed, nodding affably. He ran a finger under the collar of his cravat, and tugged it away from his neck. "You know, you never did tell me why it is that you're carrying around a man's wardrobe."

Miranda glanced away, more uncomfortable than ever.

"Well, I would hardly credit it as an urge on your part to assume britches and coattails." He looked pointedly at her, then allowed his eyes to linger on the front of her dress.

She squirmed inwardly. The gown had been chosen for its rich, embroidered fabric, and graceful lines. Its color harmonized beautifully with what Sparrow was wearing, but now she was painfully reminded of the amount of bosom displayed by the low, square neckline. She found that she'd very much enjoyed his appreciative look when he'd first seen her that morning, but at the back of her head was the nagging accusation that his approval might be the real reason for her selection.

"Nothing like that, Captain." she said, and waved at herself with her black, lace trimmed fan more to help dispel her nervous tension than any need for a breeze. "There was a time once when I thought to remarry. What you're wearing would have been part of my wedding gift to him."

"It didn't work out, I'm taking it."

"You could say that." she replied, and found that the memory didn't sting as badly now.

What did smart, however, was the look of almost pity on the pirates face.

"What?" she demanded bitterly, and Sparrow's eyes turned guarded. His lips compressed to a thin line.

"Nothing." he said tightly, then went on with exagerrated casualness, "Only an observation that her Ladyship shows a history of involvement with men who are incapable of...appreciating her."

An angry flush rose in Miranda's cheeks.This was beyond bold!

"Captain," she started hotly, only at the last remembering not to use his surname, "I don't see how this could possibly be any of your--"

"Now, now," he interrupted smoothly, "Not sayin' it was your idea, lass. In fact," he ran a hand over his beard, groped for the missing braids, then gave up and tugged at his collar again. "I'm getting the idea that I should be grateful for their stupidity."

That statement could be taken on so many different levels, Miranda thought it safest to say nothing.

Why did he feel the need to keep provoking her? For that matter, why did she allow herself to respond to it? The pirate confused her horribly -- his astonishing level of courtesy alternated with the most blatant suggestiveness. It was the last that she found hardest to deal with. Accustomed as she was to subtleties and innuendo, Jack Sparrow's brand of forwardness left her off balance. Playful banter could give way at any moment to a seemingly candid kind of enticement that, if she were truly honest with herself, made her want to respond in kind. That coupled with his habit of standing all to near for her personal comfort was most distressing of all.

"Though, if all highborn men have to dress like this all the time," the pirate went on, still pulling at his neck wear, "It might help to explain some of that stupidity. I don't see how you people stand it."

Safe ground again if he was complaining about the clothing.

"Stop pulling at your neck." she admonished, "It won't help, and you'll only tear the fabric."

He crossed his arms and glared at her from the corner of his eye. "You won't let me scratch my head, or my chin, and now I can't keep from being choked to death? I'd like to see you put up with this for a while."

"I'll make a bargain with you. Next time, I'll take the wig and cravat, and you can borrow my gown." She gave him an arch look. "We'll have to lengthen the hem a bit. Though, I'm not sure the corset goes with that beard. You'll just have to shave it off."

"Point taken." he grumbled with a curl of his lip, then plucked disdainfully at the front of the deep plum coat. "But all of this comes off as soon as I'm back on my ship."

Miranda stared determinedly ahead to the nearing dock, fixing a bland look on her face.

"I'm sure it will be a side of you your crew's not seen before." she said quietly, and felt a rush of satisfaction at his startled bark of laughter.

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**_A/N:_**Please, gentle readers, give me reviews...feedback...the finger if you'd like, but sound off, for heavens sake! 


	12. Chapter11

Hello again, gentle readers! This chapter is so long, that my page doesn't seem to want to leave me any room for answering reviews. But I wanted to say Thank You to ALL!  
  
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Chapter 11

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"Where exactly are we going?" the Lady Miranda wanted to know as the coaches rattled through the streets of Port Royal.

"Just need a moment to get my bearings, luv." Jack said, leaning out , and searching for a landmark. There had been no sign of the _**Pearl**_ from the docks here at the sea side of the Port. Not that he'd really expected to see his ship just then, figuring that he was still several hours ahead, even with the steady winds. With luck, the **_Black Pearl _**would be in range by nightfall, and they could be away under cover of dark. All Jack needed now was a place to while away the hours until that time. But the last time he'd been through this town, he'd been in something of a rush, and so...

"Ah - stop here!" he called, knocking at the top of the coach. Shem pulled the team up, and Jack climbed out, looking down a familiar street. "We'll walk from here." he decided, dropping the folding steps so the Lady could descend.

"Maybe," she said evasively, "But let's see how my patient feels about it first."

AnaMaria did not feel like walking. She told him so in no uncertain terms, and in language blistering enough to make the Lady cringe. They had found her doubled over in her seat, tears streaming down her face, and gripping Sam's hand hard enough to turn her knuckles white.

"She just sneezed, ma'am." Sam reported, looking sympathetic, and Jack winced, remembering a broken rib or two in his own time.

"Damn corset's holding me in," AnaMaria gasped, "But that bloody rib just moved again...feels like it's on fire!"

Miranda looked uncertain. "If I give her anything for it now, she'll not be able to walk."

"Do it." Jack instructed. "We'll not be going out on the water for another few hours yet."

AnaMaria gulped down the remedy eagerly, and soon after her body relaxed back into her seat.

Miranda stroked her dark forehead soothingly. "I hate to keep drugging her like this." she told him helplessly, "I have some ointment that will numb the area, but..."

"You'll be able to use it soon enough." he reassured. "Why don't we let the youngsters stay here with the coaches. We won't be long." She looked loath to leave, but AnaMaria gave her a drowsy wave.

"It's better already." she murmured.

"The horses need watering anyway, Lady." Shem added. "If anyone asks, Jaime and I 'll just tell 'em 'the mistress is shopping' in our best high-toned manner."

She still looked doubtful, but took Jack's arm when he made a show of proffering it, and accompanied him down the street. Her hand was stiff as it rested on his arm -- she was still uncomfortable being this near to him, he noted, and her face was once again that mask of almost inhuman calm.

She inclined her head gracefully to men who swept their hats from their heads as they passed, and Jack took his cue from them. He nodded in return, or doffed his own cap to ladies who strolled along from shop to shop.

Their walk wasn't entirely pleasant. The courtesy of one fellows gesture was marred by his mocking expression, while another somberly dressed man eyed Jacks diminutive companion with profound disapproval. More than one woman made a grand show of pretending not to see Miranda at all.

"What's their problem?" he asked finally.

"My reputation proceeds me." she returned, her lips barely moving. At his look of confusion she reminded him, "I am a divorced woman, Captain."

"Someday, you'll have to explain to me what in blazes that has to do with anything." he told her, and she appeared startled by his lack of understanding.

Ahead, by a shop whose sign marked it as a dressmakers facility, a pair of finely gowned women stared rudely at them as they approached. They were escorted by a pudgy, foppishly attired man who eyed Miranda in a way that sent an unexpected wave of severe dislike through Jack. The Lady's hand tightened on his arm.

One of the women, a plump lass whose round face might have been pretty were it not for the mean-spirited look in her eyes, turned and whispered into the ear of her bone thin, sallow complexioned friend.

"Brazen strumpet." he heard the skinny one mutter spitefully as they passed.

"No better than she should be." the fop tittered, his piggish eyes moving over the Lady in an undisguised leer.

Miranda lifted her chin bravely, but Jack could see the tears that filmed over her eyes.

"That does it." he growled, disengaging from her and turning back. "You there," he snapped, lengthening his steps into a measured landsman's stride. The fop looked fearfully at him when he stopped.

"You've offered an insult to my Lady." Jack informed him calmly, "Do you want to call in your second, or shall we settle this up right now?"

The two gossips gasped, and the paunchy fellow was suddenly pasty and trembling. The piggish eyes cast about for someone to aid him. Finding none, he swallowed hard, and met Jack's cold glare.

"I humbly beg your pardon, sir." he stammered out.

"That doesn't quite satisfy, I fear." Jack looked down his nose at the fop. "Apologize to the Lady."

"I humbly beg your pardon, Countess!" came the rushed, squeaky plea.

Miranda nodded regally, and the pudgy fellow actually bowed, giving his thanks in that same panicked voice.

Jack turned his attention to the two gossips, sweeping his eyes scornfully over them until the pair squirmed nervously.

"Ladies." he said finally, in a manner that implied that they were anything but. Then, he coolly turned away, catching up Miranda's hand and continuing their strolling progress.

"I've never had anyone offer a challenge on my behalf before." she said softly, but sounding as though she were struggling not to laugh, "That was terribly noble of you, kind sir."

"Must be the clothes, darlin'" he replied, trying to walk as though his feet weren't being pinched by the ill-fitting shoes, and land was a surface he was accustomed to. "Put a man in fancy garb and a collar that chokes off all the sense from his brain, and the next thing you know, he's calling out perfect strangers for any little thing."

"Don't say that," she said in a sulky voice, "You'll ruin the effect."

_That_ was interesting. He glanced at her. "Did it have an effect, Lady?"

"Well, it certainly did on Alice and her little band of cronies."

Jack couldn't have cared less about 'Alice', or her little friends. Halting abruptly, he faced her.

"That's not what I meant." he said, looking at her searchingly. "Did it?"

Her eyes were very large, and very uncertain.

"Yes."

It was hardly more than a whisper. He saw that single word more than heard it, and it cut right through him.

The hardened, jaded part of his mind warned that he could be making a very big mistake here. He managed to pay attention to it -- right up until he noticed the tears that still clung to her lashes from that dried-up stick figure's words, and then almost before her knew it, his hand lifted to gently wipe them away.

Jack let his palm rest against her cheek. Her skin was warm, very soft under his fingers. Eyes closed, she leaned into his hand, seemingly content to stay that way.

All too soon, a tiny crease appeared between her brows. He could see the instant that she remembered they were standing in the middle of a street, no doubt with an audience as well. Another thing that Jack couldn't have cared less about, but women were strange about things like that.

Her eyes opened then, and she looked away shyly. Slowly, her head turned towards the three bodies that still hovered at the edge of his peripheral vision.

"Don't," he entreated, "Don't look back. Look at me." He smiled gently. "You'll ruin the effect, otherwise."

She recognized her own words thrown back. "And did it have and effect, Captain?" she asked in a tiny voice, while his fingers still played over the curve of her cheek.

"My lady," Jack began, speaking not that much louder than she, "You shouldn't even have need to ask."

Her defenses were as lowered as he'd ever seen them. He could read everything that ran through those marvelous eyes as if written on a page.

What might she be reading in his own eyes right now?

"Something else we'll have to remember to talk about later." he told her seriously, and watched the color rise in her face again. He breathed a laugh, then raised her hand and pressed his lips to her knuckles, lingering there for a long moment. "And I think we've given your admirers something to think about, as well." he added, tucking her hand back under his arm.

"You're a dreadful man, Captain." she managed weakly as he lead her onward, "You'll have just greased the rumor mill for the rest of the season."

"Let them talk." he snorted. "This way." He turned them down another side street. "Now they can gossip about your ardent new suitor whose so bewitched by your charms, that he..." Jack trailed off, looking bewildered at the row of unfamiliar buildings. "...Can't bloody remember where he's going." He threw a look back over his shoulder, and gave an exaggerated sigh. "You see?" he complained, turning them around, "Smile at a man, and his head gets all confounded. Here we are -- Brown's Smi..." Jack blinked and looked hard at the sign that hung over the door. The carved symbols hadn't changed much, but the name certainly had.

"Well, well." he remarked, impressed. "Your boy's gone up in the world, Bootstrap." He smiled, and opened the door to_ Turner's Smithy_.

The interior was larger, more spaced out from the last time. It appeared that the shop had been expanded at some point. There were even more items in for repair, and many that looked to have been created right here. An ornate wrought iron gate leaned against the far wall, marked with a hanging tag printed with an address. Next to it was a rack bristling with all manner of edged weaponry.

One thing hadn't changed -- the little brown donkey lifted its head at their entrance. From the way it lay its long ears flat against its skull, the creature remembered Jack well enough.

"Sorry about that, mate." he said apologetically.

The little donkey bared its teeth.

Following the sound of grinding metal, Jack moved further into the room, then smiled fondly.

The lad was so engrossed in his work that he hadn't noticed them enter. Sparks flew from the grinding wheel, and from the unfinished sword held to it.

Jack watched in silence, then when the lad straightened to examine his work, "Still at it, son?"

Will spun around to face him, and from his expression, Jack could tell he didn't recognize his old friend. He grinned and stepped closer.

"Thought you would have found yourself that girl by now, mate."

Will stared as if he couldn't trust his own eyes. The rough blade slowly lowered.

"Jack?" he said finally. Then a smile lit up the boys sooty face. "I don't believe it!" Jack stuck out his hand and Will shook it enthusiastically. The boy had a grip like a vice, he realized with some discomfort, but the warm welcome more than made up for it.

"When did you get here?" Will asked. Then, his smile faded. "And what are you thinking coming back to a place where you're so well known -- Gillette was in port only days ago."

"Not to worry, mate. He's turning Port Hamilton on its ear right about now, and by this evening, I'll be well on my way." Jack grinned broadly. "But since I was in the area...thought I'd pay my respects."

This wasn't entirely a falsehood. While he did believe he could count on young Will giving himself and his people a place to wait until nightfall, he'd also genuinely missed the lad.

Even if Will did tend to be something of a stick.

"And how is your lovely bride? How long you two been married, now?"

Will's face got a peculiar, dreamy kind of look. "Eight months, twenty one days, and this morning."

Lord, the boy had it bad. Obviously Elizabeth still had him firmly wrapped around her dainty little finger.

"Took you long enough to get there." Jack pointed out. "Near on to two years? That's a long time to be marching to the alter."

"And it would have taken even longer, if not for what you passed on to us." Will said seriously.

Oh yes -- the treasure Jack had stowed in the boy's vest and Elizabeth's pockets before it could be confiscated by Norrington. What his two friends couldn't carry had ended up over the side.

"Seemed fitting, you sharing the risks and all. Though," Jack sighed with regret, "I do miss that crown." It had caused him no end of heartache to watch that gem encrusted confection sink into the deep, but...ah well.

"But why don't you come by the house?" the lad was asking, "I'm sure she'll be happy to see you again, and --" he noticed Miranda for the first time. "You haven't introduced me to your friend."

"Where are my manners? William Turner -- Lady Miranda Warringford."

Will blinked and gave Jack a suspicious look. "Countess?" He gave her a smart little bow. "You purchased a sword from...from Mr. Brown several years ago. I hope you found the order to your satisfaction?"

"I did, Mr. Turner, and thank you." She studied the lad thoughtfully. "It was beautiful work. I'm happy to see that you're finally able to take proper credit for it."

"You knew?" Will sounded surprised.

Miranda tossed her head." Old Mr. Brown's quality had been slipping for years. Only when his apprentice took over most of his duties did the people of this island start looking to his smithy again." she told him, and Will smiled modestly.

"But," she went on, "As the person that sword was intended for proved undeserving of so fine a creation, I've loaned it to the good Captain."

Jack's hand went for the unfamiliar blade that hung in its fancy scabbard from the equally fine sword belt. He hadn't bothered to look at it before, but he did so now. It was a fine piece of work. Not only beautiful to look at, the weight felt good in his hand, and the balance was excellent. This sword might as well have been made for him. He swung it experimentally, once, twice. It made a satisfying whistle as it cut through the air.

He hoped the Lady didn't expect to get it back.

"I don't have anything pressing for the rest of the day, " Will said, "Why don't we go now?"

"Lead the way." Jack sheathed the sword. "Only fair to warn you though, there's more in our party than just we two."

Will narrowed his eyes. "How many 'more'?"  
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Once again, the two coaches made their way through the streets. Will rode with them, his bay mare tied to the back.

"Much of what you handed me went to the building of our house." the blacksmith was saying, "I was going to save the rest for opening my own smithy when my apprenticeship was over, but Mr. Brown unexpectedly decided to retire back to England. He sold me the business for a song.

"I think some of what you gave Elizabeth might have had something to do with that." Will said, looking uncomfortable. "You don't necessarily have to tell her I said that. She doesn't think I suspect she had a hand in it."

"It dies with me, mate." Jack chortled. The Elizabeth he remembered wouldn't have let anything stand in the way of what she wanted. And if Will' s gaining his own shop would shave down the time to wait before marrying the lad, Jack could fully envision her ruthlessly bribing the old sot to step aside.

"And what about you?" Will eyed Jack's fine clothing curiously. "You must have made it back to the island."

"I've not had much luck with that." he admitted, "I spent the whole of that first year dodging Norrington's ships...think the Commodore was somewhat put out with me when he discovered I'd ruined that lovely map with all those helpful bearings noted. After that..." Jack shrugged, "Had to keep my ship and crew going, and with all the boats to and from the Americas, business hasn't been half bad."

He ran a hand over his mouth to cover his smile. His traveling companions were trying without much success to hide identical expressions of disapproval.

"You'll never change, will you, Jack?" Will shook his head.

Jack spread his hands. "It's a living."

The Turner home was a large house located a mile or so from the town. Jack had no idea how something made of stone and mortar could exude a warm feeling of welcome, but this place did.

"It's not the Governor's Mansion," Will said mildly, "But Elizabeth hasn't complained."

Elizabeth was pleasantly surprised by her husband's homecoming, setting aside the book she'd been reading, and rising to greet him with a kiss. She looked radiant, Jack thought, and noting the loose waistline of her day gown, suspected it was more than just the happiness of a young bride in the company of her spouse.

"I was going to offer my congratulations," he began, "But I see now that another kind of felicitation might be in order." He eyed Will slyly. "This'll put those pesky eunuch rumors to rest, I'm thinking."

Will flushed pinkly, but his wife stared in amazement.

"Jack? Jack Sparrow?" Her smile widened as she studied him from head to foot. "Well, I suppose this explains why the**_ Vanguard_** left port like someone had set fire to her. What in the world are you wearing?" She held out her hands to him. "You almost look respectable."

He clasped her hands. "Now, is that any way to talk to an old friend who just wanted to wish you well?"

"And hide out here." Will added from the corner of his mouth. Jack feigned a hurt look.

"Well, Jack?" Elizabeth asked archly, though still with a smile.

"You can blame my companion for the wardrobe." he said, gesturing behind him. "She seemed to think it would keep me from standing out." Elizabeth looked beyond him, and saw the Lady standing in the doorway. Once again, Jack made the introductions, though his eyes stayed on Miranda's guarded, uncertain face.

"Lady Warringford," Elizabeth began cautiously, "Your reputation proceeds you."

Then, the governor's daughter proved the strength of her character all over again. "Emily Staunthon has been singing your praises for months, now." she said, holding her hands out to her guest. "She swears she'd have never survived the morning sicknesses if not for what you prescribed, to say nothing of getting through the twins' birth."

Miranda's relief was a palpable thing, and her smile was like the sun coming up. She went to Elizabeth, and the two women were soon chatting quietly like old friends.

"I owe her one for that." Jack said aside to Will. "For some reason, the people of this town feel the need to treat that woman like a pariah."

Will shook his head, looking baffled. "People get strange ideas." he said sagely, "They weren't very kind to Elizabeth when she married below her station." To the boy's credit, this was said without a hint of bitterness. "Perhaps your lady doesn't put much stock in conventions and appearances, either."

"That could be it." Jack agreed, impressed by the lad's insight. Then, he stared hard at his friend.

"_My_ lady?" he asked incredulously.

Bootstrap's son only gave him a knowing grin. In that moment, the resemblance between the boy and his father was so acute, it was like having the old scallywag beside him again.

"You know, I remember the way old William used to talk about Katie - your mother." he said, then tipped his head toward the blacksmith's wife. Will nodded expectantly, always eager for stories about his father.

"Bootstrap used to say that a woman like that always made a man feel big and protective. Like all he ever wanted was to spend the rest of his life looking to her happiness."

"I wonder why he chose that life, then." Will asked sadly.

"Oh, to make the kind of money he wanted fast." Jack said. "That's why most men go a-pirating." He looked again at Elizabeth's radiant face. "Looks like you've managed well enough."

"I'm not always sure who's looking after whom." Will admitted, "And the funny thing is, I don't mind it in the slightest."

"Ah, well that makes you one of the lucky ones, mate." Jack clapped him on the back. "Hullo, looks like the ladies are off to fetch AnaMaria in. Best see if they need a hand."

AnaMaria was soon ensconced in one of the bedrooms, along with Miranda and her case of medicines and ointments. Will lead the two coach drivers off to the kitchen, turning in the doorway to see if his wife would follow.

"You go on." she told him, raising up on her toes to kiss his cheek, "If I know you, you haven't bothered to have lunch yet." Then, she whispered into her husband's ear. Will raised his brows, looking from her to Jack, then gave her a quick embrace before stepping into the kitchen.

"I take it you're wanting to discuss something." Jack guessed.

"You still don't miss a thing." she said, walking past him. "Not here, though. Out on the veranda. Estrella is a dear girl, but she can be a terrible gossip."

Once outside, she wheeled on him. "What are you doing with her, Jack?" she asked suspiciously, and Jack held up his hands.

"Easy, darlin'. There's some dangerous characters who would probably be happier if her head were removed from her shoulders. I thought I'd do me best to see that didn't happen."

"And that's all?"

"Does there need to be another reason?" he countered, and she narrowed her eyes at him.

"Alright then, the Lady has something in her possession. Something that these gentlemen were willing to murder her entire household for. It got my curiosity up."

Elizabeth continued to study him. "You're not lying to me," she decided, "But I don't think you're telling me everything, either. What's in this for you?"

He pasted a smile to his lips. "I've seen the error of me ways," he said grandly, "And thought I could expiate some of my greater sins by helping the poor woman out."

Her look was so openly skeptical that Jack had to laugh. She joined in a moment later, but sobered all too soon.

"Will said that you were a good man, Jack. I believe that too. But I do find it hard to believe that this is all just an act of altruism on your part."

Elizabeth Turner, Jack realized, was possibly one of the most dangerous people he'd ever met in his life. She could read any person or situation as easily as himself, and, as he remembered so well, had no scruples against doing, or using anything -- or anyone -- necessary to attain her goals.

"Poor Will never stood a chance against you, did he?" he sighed. Elizabeth took this as the compliment it was, but wouldn't let him off the hook. He hadn't really expected otherwise.

"Cards on the table, Elizabeth. What's really got you in knots?"

She frowned, averting her eyes. "I don't really know the Countess well. In fact, I've only met her twice in my life, and the last was several years ago. But..." she looked up, and her expression begged him to understand. "People talk -- especially when the subject happens to be part of the aristocracy. She's had the most horrible things said against her, that many will go out of their way to be cruel."

"Because she's divorced?" The idea sounded foolish, childish. From the way she looked now, Elizabeth thought so too.

"That's part of it...She left her husband -- a man with a brutal reputation, even as far away as here, and the idea of a woman doing that makes...it unsettles certain people. Men will speak against her for fear of their own wives getting ideas. Women will do the same to prove that the very idea is the furthest thing from their minds."

She clasped her hands together, distressed. "I don't know if I can make you understand that sort of mind set, Jack. But I've heard other things about her. When I could stomach sifting though all that ugliness to find the few grains of truthful information, I found out about a decent, and kind woman who's done her best to remain above all the vicious words. She's been hurt, Jack. Terribly hurt."

"That much I did gather." Jack said shortly, "And having seen first hand the way that man treats her--"

"You mean, he's here?" Her eyes widened, alarmed.

"He was. A charming fellow, especially when I overheard him tearing her to shreds with his words, and then conspiring to have her done away with."

"I understand why she's with you, then. He's a horrible man, Jack. The pampered, only son of a family with close connections to the throne, who uses those connections to get his way. If I can help you in this in any way, I will. Only..." She twisted her hands together again.

"Yes, " Jack encouraged when she fell into an uncomfortable silence, "Go on."

"I've seen the way you look at her, Jack." she said in a rush, "And the way she looks at you when she thinks you've turned away. Just -- think about what you're doing."

"I see." Jack couldn't keep the bitterness from his tone, "You're afraid the Lady will get her heart wounded again, is that it?"

Elizabeth met his eyes with well remembered directness. "Not just _her_ heart, Jack."

That set him on his heels. A strange rush of gratitude filled him, and he found himself again thinking of how lucky a man he was to know such people as these.

"You know," he said with a mischievous air, "I really should be terribly put out with the both of you. Will had to go and make an honest woman out of you, and cost me one hell of a business partner."

She drew herself up huffily. "Will would never have agreed to..." She trailed off uncertainly when he shook his head.

"I wasn't talking about Will, luv." he said. At her look of incomprehension, he stepped closer, dropping his voice conspiratorially. "Peas in a pod, darlin'. Remember? Though I still wouldn't turn my back on you."

Her smile of understanding grew wider. "Why, Captain Sparrow, I do believe that's the nicest thing you've ever said to me."

.

.

The afternoon shadows lengthened, and Jack felt his nerves stretch right along with them. He took to pacing the floor of the Turner home, willing himself to stay calm. Nervous people made mistakes, and in his situation, one slip-up could turn fatal.

For himself, at least. One would be hard pressed to imagine Sam Bottoms as anything other than a young livery man, dressed smartly as he was in the clothing Lady Warringford had provided him, and AnaMaria could easily disappear back into the Lady's household if need be. The girl was a natural chameleon -- even the way she moved had changed the moment she presented herself in public.

Neither of them were marked by a pirate's brand, or had faces known by the authorities.

"What is it you have planned?" Will asked, falling into step beside him.

Jack raised his eyebrows. "Not sure you want to get involved in this one, son. It wouldn't do well to have anything reflect back on you should something go wrong." He looked pointedly to where Elizabeth sat in quiet conversation with Miranda and his First Mate, "You've far more to loose now."

Will gave him an odd look. "What's happened to you, Jack? The pirate I remember seems to have gotten a conscience since last I saw him."

"The last time you saw me, I'd just discovered there were a pair of people ready to stand on the gallows with me to prove my so-called 'better nature'," Jack said with unaccustomed feeling, "You'll pardon me if I'm not up to endangering them any further."

The boy looked dumbstruck. So did his wife, who had risen to join them unnoticed. Jack felt utterly embarrassed. Had those words actually come out of his mouth?

"You people are a bad influence." he scowled, "Next thing you know, I'll be drinking tea at cotillions with my little finger held out, asking for a strumpet...crumpet!" he amended with feigned haste. His brusque words and foolishness didn't mislead either of them, and the warmth with which they regarded him only embarrassed him further.

"Did you tell him?" Elizabeth asked suddenly, and Will shook his head.

"I forgot, actually." Will admitted, suddenly somber again.

Jack eyed the both of them. "Tell me what?" he demanded, and Elizabeth reached out to hold his arm.

"I don't know if you've heard, but Barbossa's men escaped."

That was startling. The last he'd known, the surviving men of his mutinous former crew were to have been loaded onto a ship for England to be tried and sentenced there.

"They were on the **_Regent_**, a third class warship headed home to England after their escort duties on the trade routes. No one is sure how it happened, but somehow, those men got free of their chains and were able to overcome the crew." Elizabeth shook her head. "Father told me when the news reached himself and the Commodore."

"I hadn't heard about that." Jack admitted, stroking his beard -- or what Miranda's ministrations to his beard allowed him to reach.

"We didn't think you had," said Will, "We thought you should know, in case those men are harboring a grudge. If there's a chance they'd come back to _these_ waters..."

"I'll consider myself warned." Jack said earnestly.

But it wasn't long before he was restlessly pacing again, pausing only to stare out the window, the passage of the sun like a great weight on his shoulders.

"Jack," Elizabeth said, sounding pained, "You're beginning to put me on edge. Why don't you sit down and have a glass of wine?"

"Thanks, but no, darlin'." he replied impishly, "I've already learned my lesson, and I make it a point to never drink with governor's daughters anymore."

Elizabeth calmly swatted him on the arm.

.

.

An hour before dark, as the sun was beginning to set, the sign that Jack had been hoping for flashed overhead in a whirl of blue and gold.

"Our scout's here." he announced, finding that great weight suddenly lift from him , "That means they're just off the cays."

He leaned out the window, letting out a shrill whistle. Mr. Cotton's Parrot perched on the sill moments later, waiting attentively for orders.

"What a beautiful animal." he heard Miranda exclaim. "You don't know the half of it, ma'am," Sam said excitedly, "Seein' that bird means we'll be on our way home soon."

"I see...yes -- that is good news." she said carefully, as though trying to sound unconcerned.

She must be thinking of her own home, Jack realized. And if he knew anything about the lass at all, he was willing to bet her worry lay more with the people there, than with the stone and brickwork.

As before, he quickly scrawled a note, handing the scrap into that wickedly curved beak, and watching the bird wing its way towards the water.

Jack turned, seeing all the faces that looked up at him expectantly. He smiled thinly, then repeated to them the single work he'd sent off to his ship.

"Tonight."  
  
**_A/N:_**Redbud-Tree, thank you for the long review! Believe me, I've still got plenty of cliffhangers left to go! Saxony, your commentary had me laughing my head off! Arein and Shimmeringtears, thank you so much! Captain Tish -- you called it! Right to the Turners. As always, PLEASE read and review! 


	13. Chapter12

Ah...another week, another chapter uploaded! I hope everybody enjoys this particular installment, and extra points to anyone who can identify the Monty Python quote.

Completeopposites: Thank you very much! I try to take care with characters that I'm this fond of...and so far there aren't many people in this story that I don't get along with. With the possible exception of Edward Dunnthorpe, of course. Glad that you're enjoying this!

Redbud-Tree: Caffine is my bestest buddy too...with the possible exception of rum, but that's another story. lol! And no, I'm not a professional writer by any stretch of the word. Just someone who, because of this fantastic movie, felt that she had a story to tell. But thank you anyway! And Will and Elizabeth were a lot of fun for me in this chapter. They kind of surprised me, but the good ones usually do. ;)

Captain Tish: Thank you, thank you, thank you! And yes, I do believe that "insightfulness" is a word. If not, then it ought to be! And I liked that particular scene too. It kind of came out of nowhere, but just seemed...fitting somehow. Don't worry...there's a looooong way to go before this tale is over!

That said, I'll ask everybody to please read and review! Tell me what you liked, what you didn't like...etc, and remind everybody that all established characters are not mine, whether I like it or not (and I dont!), and that, yes...Disney owns everything that I adore...damn them.

**

Chapter 12

**  
  
Jack Sparrow, Miranda decided, was out of his mind. Why else would a man of his notoriety carelessly tempt fate by putting himself squarely in view of the King's soldiers?

"You worry too much, girl," he told her in a leisurely manner, "You gave me this outfit for just this reason, remember?"

"Of course I do," she hissed in a heated whisper, "But I wasn't expecting you to go straight up to a pair of guardsmen, and start chatting them up for directions."

He laughed -- the wretch was laughing at her! Here they were on the docks of Port Royal, all to near the section of the waterfront that seemed peopled only by men in red and blue uniforms, and this impossible man was going out of his way to draw attention to himself. At this rate, she wouldn't need to concern herself with falling into Edward Dunnthorpe's hands again...Sparrow would have her in the grave from heart failure first!

"Just testing the disguise, luv, and it worked like a charm. You see," he bent down, speaking quietly. "Last time I was in these parts, I was quite a while in the company of those very men. If anyone had a chance of recognizing me, it would have been those two fine, upstanding gentlemen over there."

"I see." Miranda replied. At least, she thought she understood. She was a bit distracted at the moment. Stark terror had a habit of doing that to a body.

Or maybe it was the feeling of the pirate's warm breath on her ear, or the low, confidential voice that sent a shiver through her.

_Damn the man_.

"Nevertheless, Cap -- Mr. Rinaldo," she went on, using the alias he'd suggested, "I do wish you'd show a little more restraint. If something should go wrong here, then it's the gallows for you, Edward for me, and no chance of ever having any of those conversations you keep hinting at."

What in the world had made her include that last bit? She should have stayed in her coach, or with AnaMaria -- anywhere but to stand here on this darkened quay, holding the arm of a scoundrel who caused the most ridiculous things to fly out of her mouth. Mortified, she scowled at him.

Sparrow was giving her an appraising look. "Very good," he complimented, "Find the right leverage, and use it to your advantage." From what she could see of his shadowed face, he seemed pleased.

"You'll be thinking like a pirate in no time. But if it'll ease your Ladyship's mind, I'll do my best to behave myself. Ah -- young Samuel's waving us over. Shall we?" He lead her along, walking tenderly in the too tight shoes, and all the while making suggestions in that easy, half slurred speech.

"Mr. Bottoms looks to have found us a way onto the water. Now, if anyone decides to come a-questioning, just let me do the talking, savvy?"

"I beg your pardon?" Miranda frowned at that last. What in the world did he mean by that? "Savvy..." he repeated, then gave an exaggerated sigh. "Compre Vouz --Verstehen Sie -- Comprende -- Tu Compriendes?"

"Yes, yes." Miranda cut him off before he could go on in however many languages he might know, "I understand." She glared sidelong at him, suddenly infuriated by his small steps. "And will you please stop mincing about!"

"Mincing!" he repeated, startled. Then he laughed again. "My lady, just for you,_ I'll turn two mincing steps into a manly swagger_." So saying, he put deed to words, and lengthened his stride.

She rolled her eyes heavenward -- the Bard again! At least, it wasn't '_The Tempest_' this time.

"Think I've got something, here." Sam told them, keeping his voice down. "There's a couple of small dorrys that'll do in a pinch, but if you look out there," he pointed out to the water, "There's a churchman out there making his rounds. He's being rowed from ship to ship by a couple of his...his --"

"Acolytes?" Miranda supplied helpfully.

"If you say so, ma'am." the young man replied politely, "Anyways, I can see their lantern from here. Looks like they're coming in for the night, and that boat's got more room in it. We could probably convince them to let us use it..."

"Or," Sparrow took up the line of thought, "Even better, the right persuasion just might convince them to do the work for us."

"You mean, you're going to threaten a priest?" Miranda heard herself squeak, aghast.

Sparrow gave her a look of long suffering patience. "Watch, luv." he told her, that infuriatingly smirk back again. "Watch, and learn."

.

.

And so it was that Miranda found herself once more clinging to the pirates arm as he wove a not entirely implausible tale for the clergyman and his two acolytes. It appeared that she was now cast in the role of a missionary's wife, whose concerned brother-in-law was escorting her to her good husband in the Americas, along with donations from faithful parishioners, and medicines for the 'poor, suffering heathens'.

The priest looked a bit skeptical. She couldn't blame the man -- if she'd known she was to play this part, she would surely have dressed more soberly. But the priest's face became positively beatific when Captain Sparrow removed a small coin purse from his pocket, shaking it meaningfully.

"A donation to your own poor box?" he suggested hopefully.

Miranda added her own petition. "Please, Father...every moment we're delayed, more lives may be lost -- to say nothing of their souls."

Not difficult at all to sound concerned. In truth, she felt ready to fly out of her skin if this took too much longer.

His eyes still on the money purse in Sparrow's hand, the priest gave a nod of assent.

"Of course, my child," he said, "Every servant of the Lord should be ready to assist his brother...or sister. Which ship is yours?"

"A moment there, friar. Let's get everything on board first." The Captain himself helped his gunner load Miranda's trunk into the boat. The oilskin bags containing the three pirates belongings came next, followed by AnaMaria with the leather medicine case, still acting out her part as Miranda's attendant.

Miranda, still on land, was bidding a hurried farewell to Shem and Jaime. "I'll do my best to get word to you, but..."

Shem awkwardly gripped her shoulder, and Jaime looked so forlorn that tears welled up in her eyes.

"We'll let everyone know we saw you off." Shem promised, "And don't worry -- I won't let old Reisen get fat."

She smiled weakly, not trusting herself to speak.

"Come on, sister dear." came Sparrow's voice at her side, and she started nervously. "We don't want to keep your husband thinking we're still here, do we?"

This was said for the benefit of the priest's ears, but the words made her snap around to face him. In the flickering light of the torches, the pirate's eyes looked wild. She felt lightheaded, and suddenly terrified.

This was it. When her feet left this ground, there would be no turning back from this path that she'd chosen.

"Miranda," Sparrow said deliberately, lowering his voice, "We must leave now." He held out his hand, though, and waited. "It's your choice, Lady."

Mad Jack Sparrow, she remembered him being called, and Gentleman Jack Sparrow. Not Barbossa -- or the Bloody Spaniard. She chided herself for her useless vacillations, and firmly took his hand.

"Keep her safe, sir." Jaime piped up, and Shem grunted in agreement. "She'll be back ordering you around before you know it." Sparrow avowed, drawing her inexorably away. She chanced one last look over her shoulder, then the Captain lowered her into the waiting boat.

Sam steadied her on her feet. "Up there, ma'am," he said helpfully, guiding her to sit beside AnaMaria.

The boat rocked when Sparrow dropped into it. "We're all here." he informed the priest, casting off the mooring line.

The priest rose to his feet, holding up his hands and raising his eyes to heaven. "We shall pray God's blessing on your voyage, my children," he began loftily, and Miranda automatically bowed her head. "Our Lord, we beseech you --"

"Amen." Sparrow interrupted firmly. "Crack to it, lads." He gave a mighty shove, sending their craft away from the quay. The sudden lurch tumbled the sputtering cleric into his seat. The two acolytes began to row. A moment later, Sam and the Captain located another pair of oars under the seats, and their added muscle sent the little boat fairly flying across the water.

Miranda kept her eyes glued to her hands. She knew if she dared look at the affronted priest, she'd not be able to stop laughing.

"Which ship, sir?" one of the acolytes wanted to know.

"You won't be able to see it from here, boy," Sparrow answered, "Their Captain's in a bit of a hurry, and didn't want to chance the traffic in the harbor."

This time, Miranda did choke on her laughter. AnaMaria nudged her warningly with her knee.

"They said they'd wait just off the cays," Sam spoke up, "Only, if Mr. Rinaldo here wasn't along before dawn, they'd sail without us."

Their little craft surged along. The priest tried to engage Miranda in conversation, but she proved too distracted to keep track of what the fellow was saying to her.

"Worried about your husband?" he asked then, and she almost choked again. "You shouldn't, my child. God will provide."

She couldn't help it. Her eyes went straight to Sparrow, who's lips were twitching in an effort to keep a calm face.

"Indeed, I believe he already has, Father." she agreed softly, then felt herself flush when the pirate grinned cheekily. She stared hard, then sighed. His wig had gone all askew again. He was trying without much success to blow a wayward lock out of his eyes without breaking his stroke. Before his antics could give her a fit of the giggles, she reached out and brushed the coarse hair over his shoulder. A flicker of light caught her attention. Beyond Sparrow, the unmistakable silhouette of a lantern-hung ship pulled away from the looming rocks of the cay.

"Is that your..." she caught herself and pointed, "Is that the ship we are to sail on?"

Sparrow followed her gesture, and the sight that greeted him caused a great sigh of relief to break from him. Jumping to his feet, he caught up the boat lamp, waving it around in a particular and deliberate manner.

One of the distant points lifted, repeating the Captain's movements, and adding another series of waves. Sparrow moved his light in answer, then returned the lamp to the hook.

"They're sending out a long boat for us." he told them. "The Captain wants to get underway as soon as possible."

"At night?" The priest sounded as though he didn't approve. "I say, isn't that risky in these waters?"

"Only if you're up to no good." Sparrow replied smoothly, "And here they come now."

The long boat cut through the water, speeding to intercept them. Miranda could finally see the four burly men that pulled at the oars. As the craft came alongside theirs, she recognized one of the four as the Captain's friend, Mr. Gibbs.

"Evenin', sir." that man greeted cheerily, "We were beginnin' to wonder if you were going to make it. Everyone in your party here?"

"All of them as eager to be off as your Captain, my good man."

The transfer went quickly. The instant that the priest's boat was out of range of the lantern, Captain Sparrow swept both hat and wig from his head, loosened out his hair, and rubbed his hands vigorously over his face. "Did you have to use so much wax?" he complained, trying to dislodge his twin braids, "It'll take forever to get all this out."

For some reason, this struck Miranda as unbelievable funny just then.

"Is she alright?" she heard Mr. Gibbs ask in a voice that questioned her sanity.

"You'd almost have to have been there." Sparrow advised, picking another chunk of wax from his beard.  
  
The pirate didn't wait for their long boat to be pullied up to the ship, preferring to clamber up the ropes, where he disappeared over the railing. Miranda heard his voice raise up in orders to the crew. Sam and two of the rowers followed him up. Probably to lighten the load on the ropes. Mr. Gibbs remained with AnaMaria and herself as the little craft rose from the sea.

Miranda helped to boost the young woman into the hands of her shipmates, where she was happily greeted -- along with some good natured ribbing about her clothing. AnaMaria cursed merrily in return, clearly glad to be back.

The iron-haired Mr. Gibbs threw the oilskin bags to the waiting men, then turned a startled eye on Miranda when she helped him lift her heavy trunk over the side.

"My arms aren't broken, Mr. Gibbs." she said pointedly, and the fellow actually smiled at her. She carefully handed over her precious bag of medicines, and then Captain Sparrow was there, reaching out to take her hand, and steadying her when her feet touched the deck. He had shed the confines of the coat, and his waistcoat was unbuttoned. That much hated cravat was nowhere to be seen, as were the ill fitting shoes.

"Milady," he said with a rakish grin, "Welcome aboard the **_Black Pearl_**."

.

.

The **_Black Pearl_**. She was aboard the very ship that had terrorized the Spanish Main for over a decade. Standing in AnaMaria's quarters, applying a soothing balm to the girl's wound, Miranda ran this thought over and over in her mind.

The _**Black Pearl**_...what in the world was a woman such as herself doing here?

Her nerves made her clumsy, and her patient hissed, flinching away.

"Sorry." Miranda finished bandaging the girl's ribs. "Is that better?"

"It will be soon enough." was the ready response. AnaMaria hadn't bothered to hide her relief at shedding her borrowed gown and the unaccustomed corset. Once again clad in mens garb, there was a defiant set to her jaw that her doctor found not to her liking.

"I know you're glad to be back," Miranda began carefully, "But if you exert yourself too much, that rib won't have a chance to knit properly. It will only take longer for the pain to fade."

AnaMaria looked ready to argue, then apparently thought better of it. She actually seemed embarrassed. "I'm not used to having anyone looking after me, Lady." she admitted, then shrugged her shoulder. "If I promise to be careful, will you stop giving me things that knock me out?"

"Possibly." Miranda had the strong suspicion that she was going to have a real fight on her hands with this one. "How long do you think we'll be running tonight?"

"Oh, not for long. Jack's had Jamaica put to our stern. We'll put down anchor when the lookout can't see the lights from the fort anymore." Her smile was proud. "This ship's faster than it looks. Bet we'll be out of reach before the next watch starts."

"And speaking of the time," Miranda pulled out her bottle of cinchona tincture. "I do believe it's time to leave a bad taste in your Captain's mouth again."

"Don't make me laugh." AnaMaria begged, looking strained, "Please."

Thankfully, the door to Captain Sparrow's cabin was only a short walk away. Miranda hadn't been to sea since her return from China, and the rolling motion of the ship only reminded her of this fact. Having been on the ocean many times in her life, she knew that given another day or so, she'd be walking as easily as any of the crewmen. In the meanwhile, however, it might not be a bad idea to stir some ginger into some tea tonight...just in case.

"Captain Sparrow?" she called, rapping quietly on the door, "It's Mir...it's Lady Warringford."

"Come." he barked, voice muffled.

She pushed her way in. "You'll need to take another dose, Captain. Have you eaten anything..." She spotted a freshly emptied plate on his table. "I see you have. Is there any water in here?"

"Right over there." he said from behind her. She turned to see where he was pointing to -- and quickly looked away. The man was bare from the waist up. He was holding up the waistband of his britches with one hand, while the other indicated beyond her.

"You might have been kind enough to warn me that you were disrobing." she accused, feeling her face burn.

"I might have." he agreed pleasantly, then added in a mocking tone, "And you call yourself a physician, woman? I'm sure it's nothing you've not already seen." That may be, but what she wasn't accustomed to was being in the bedroom of an unclad man who was -- at least for the time being -- healthy, conscious, and already presenting a dangerous attraction for her.

_Damn him again_.

Painfully aware of his movements in the room as she measured out the tincture into a mug, and mixed in the water, she could only pray that the rustling sounds meant he was dressing. A flash of motion drew her eye to a small mirror hanging nearby. In it, she could see the full length reflected profile of the man behind her.

All one color.

Flesh color.

She squeezed her eyes shut, but her hands fumbled badly with the water jug. It made a horrible clatter as she tried to steady it. Sparrow was laughing at her again -- it was as if he knew.

_Damn, damn, **damn!**_

"I wasn't aware that you'd decided to keep Barbossa's ship after his defeat." she said shakily, grasping for a change of subject. "The **_Black Pearl _**is somewhat notorious, thanks to his deeds."

"The **_Pearl _**was never his to begin with." Sparrow told her emphatically. "He stole her from me. I took her back."

More rustling. Miranda resisted the temptation of the mirror.

"Ten years of my life I spent trying to get my ship away from that man."

She started violently, and looked into the glass. He stood just behind her, their eyes meeting in the mirror. His smile was unsettlingly feral, the candlelight gleaming off the gold in his teeth. His dark eyes were serious.

"I won."

Her mouth went suddenly dry. She shifted her look to her hands, watching them stir the remedy as though they belonged to somebody else. Perhaps Edward had been right about one thing after all. She had been alone for too long.

That though was followed by a near overpowering urge to run, to get out of the presence of this man before something happened that she just might well spend the rest of whatever was left of her life regretting. Another glance in the mirror only reinforced this, as he still looked to be only half dressed. The clinical side of her had admired the width of his shoulders and the good muscle tone of his arms, while he'd lain unconscious under her care, even as the healer in her had cried out at the sheer amount of injuries that had left their mark on the man.

Neither of these were the ones whispering to her now, but rather a side of her nature she thought she'd bid good riddance to upon the breaking of her last, ill-advised engagement. Flustered, Miranda turned to bolt, and ran smack into the pirate's outstretched arm.

"Might as well get this over with." he said with an air of kindly regret, and pressed so close that she could feel the heat of him all down the length of her body. She feared her heart might just well explode when his lips came to within scant inches of her own --

-- And then he drew away, the mug she'd prepared held in his hand. He raised it to her in a kind of ironic salute, then turned his back to her, downing the liquid as quickly as he could.

Miranda pressed a hand to her breast, willing calm to her pounding heart as she glowered at his naked, scourge-marked back.

_That was disappointing_, that clinical, rebellious part of her remarked mournfully.

"Oh, shut up!" she snapped, thoroughly irritated.

"Pardon?" Sparrow asked, giving her an odd look.

"Nothing..." she said shortly, "It's nothing. My stomach's a touch queasy, that's all."

"Seasick?"

She nodded, and that obnoxious inner self chastised her mercilessly for her cowardice. _Liar, you've not been sick at sea once in your life_.

"Have a little of this," Sparrow offered, pulling a bottle from a cabinet and holding it up so that she could see the amber fluid inside, "It'll settle you down."

"I really shouldn't keep you, Captain." she tried lamely, but he waved to a chair and picked up a glass.

"Not at all, Lady. In fact, there's a few things we should clear up before we weigh anchor in the morning." He indicated the chair again. "Please."

There was no graceful way to exit this...though her legs were so tensed for flight that they shook. "Very well, Captain." she conceded, "But first, would you please put something on?"

"Oh, come now -- you're not going to go all squeamish on account of a few scars, are you?"

She -- squeamish? "Don't be absurd." Miranda returned, seating herself.

"Ah..." He sounded as though she'd said something completely different. Something he looked rather pleased about. "Here you are." Sparrow handed her the glass, splashing some liquor into it. "Now, if it will ease her Ladyship's delicate sensibilities..." he snatched up his shirt from the bed, pulling it on and stuffing the tails into his waistband. Then, picking up the bottle, he sat down across from her.

"Better?" he asked brightly, spreading out his arms.

"Thank you, Captain." Miranda took a small sip. Rum, she identified. The easily distilled sugar cane drink that was such a popular export from this part of the world. There was a hint of spices mixed in with the strong flavor, and that one sip warmed her from throat to belly. She took another. It emboldened her to speak. "And what did you wish to discuss during this parlay, Captain Sparrow?"

He smiled gently. "Parlay is the word for a meeting between enemies, Milady. We aren't enemies, are we?"

She shook her head slowly.

"I'm glad to know it." he said, then raised the bottle to her. "Your health, Lady." Forgoing the use of a glass, he drank straight from the bottle instead. He leaned back in his chair than, and studied her.

"So, where to now?"

Miranda frowned. "I don't understand."

"You're away from Jamaica, Milady. Have you given any thought as to where you'll go from here?"

In truth, she really hadn't. Right up till that very moment, it seemed enough to just be away from Dunnthorpe. Now that she was out on the open water...

"My family holds lands elsewhere -- Barbados, the Bahama Islands...we've a manor house in India."

"And is his Lordship aware of these?" he asked pointedly.

Miranda thought hard. "Yes," she admitted sadly, slumping a bit in her seat, "Edward would know about all of them." She rubbed wearily at her forehead. "I wish I had accompanied Hui-Sheng home...If I'd only known --" She looked up, feeling a desperate hope. "I don't suppose there's any way to catch up to him?"

Sparrow considered it. "He's got a three day jump on you, luv. The **_Pearl's_** fast, but..." He held up his hand, tipping it back and forth. "A bit iffy, were you to ask me for the odds. Although, it would be an interesting challenge." He stared speculatively into space for a time, then shook himself, and fixed her with a serious look.

"Or -- you could sail with me and my crew for a while. Might give us a chance to get to the bottom of that little puzzle of yours."

He was pointing at her ring hand. She smiled faintly, masking a rush of disappointment.

"I thought you were a pirate, Captain Sparrow, not a treasure hunter."

"What's the difference?" he countered with a shrug.

"Then I take it you have some idea in mind? What if Edward and his partner have the only information?"

"One step at a time, luv." he said placatingly. "Firstly, though, I do know of a man who might be able to translate those writings there. I'd start with him."

"And then?"

"Like I said, one thing at a time. You give the word, and come morning, we'll make way for Havana."

"Havana?" she repeated, "What could possibly help us there?"

"Not a what, luv, Havana's where this fellow I mentioned makes his home. Now, what say you?" He held out his bottle to her. "Shall we spoke his Lordship's wheel a bit more thoroughly?"

She stared hard at the man, trying to guess at what really might be going on behind those dark, unreadable eyes. He held under her inspection, meeting her look with one of expectance, and a kind of mischievous humor she found quite charming.

Why not? What could it possible hurt now? And besides, this man had treated her with nothing but fairness thus far...

"Confusion to our enemies?" she asked, raising her glass with an old soldiers salute.

"Aye," he returned, clinking his bottle against it, "And to an...interesting venture, Milady." He took a healthy gulp, watching as she drank down the remainder of her glass. "More?" he offered, holding out the bottle again.

Miranda shook her head, carefully raising. "No, thank you, Captain. I really should be off." She hadn't had enough rum to make her tipsy, but the effects were unmistakable. Best to leave now, or she might indeed agree to another glass -- and whatever else the pirate might offer.

The look Sparrow gave her seemed somewhat forlorn.

Collecting his medication and slipping it into the hidden pocket of her skirt, she had almost reached the door when another thought occurred to her.

"Captain Sparrow," she began, turning back, then giving a startled cry. He was right behind her -- she'd not heard him leave his seat.

"Don't do that!" she fumed, pressing hand to heart again, then grabbing at the long, colorful string of beads that hung to his shoulder, "Somebody should put a bell in all of this."

He found this idea rather humorous. "No, I'm sorry, Lady." he apologized after a time, "You wanted to ask me..?"

"Only this -- what if this search turns out to be nothing at all? What then?"

"Oh, I don't think it'll be a total loss," he told her with another one of those looks that made her insides melt, "At least we'll have plenty of opportunity for all those conversations we've been promising each other, eh?"

His hand lifted, fingertips tracing a slow, tingling line down the side of her face. Just as in the streets of Port Royal, Miranda stood frozen in place. Not daring to move. Not desiring to move, only to close her eyes, and lean into his touch as his fingers followed the line of her jaw, his thumb passing over her lips, then back again.

"Sure you want to stay with AnaMaria tonight, luv?" he asked huskily, and her legs turned to water.

With every ounce of will left to her, she pulled his hand away, capturing it between her own. "I think that would be best, Captain." she managed, and oh -- the bitterness those words left in her mouth!

"So formal?" he breathed, and when she looked up, those extraordinary eyes smoldered with -- what? Lust -- or something else? She didn't know the man well enough to be certain. Nor could she honestly interpret her own emotions for him.

"Still so formal." he said again, bending down to her. "I do have a name, Miranda."

Another thrill shot though her body at the sound of his voice speaking her name. Regret threatened to bring tears.

"I know, Captain." She couldn't manage anything louder than a whisper. Her own voice might betray her, otherwise. "I know."

"Ah." he said sadly. "Another time, perhaps...my Lady."

Impossible to miss the subtle change in address. Whatever else he may be, the man was no fool when it came to word craft.

"Another time." she agreed, but he wasn't finished with her yet. He looked as if he might speak again, then changed his mind, and bent his head to her, brushing his lips slowly over her own with an aching gentleness that left her every nerve on fire.

All too soon, he drew away, breathing unevenly, and his expression one of -- confusion? As though something he hadn't expected had just occurred. He looked somehow younger in that moment, and so uncertain that her heart gave another of those painful squeezes.

If he asked it again, she would stay.

"Good night, Lady." he said quietly.

She blinked. How was it possible to feel such relief, and such a torment of chagrin all at once?

"Go now, Lady." he urged, still in a low voice, but not meeting her eyes.

She fled, trembling from every limb. Her hands were still warm from his, her lips ablaze from that soft touch, and the unsteadiness of her walk had nothing whatsoever to do with the motion of the ship, or the drink she'd consumed.

She walked in a daze, seeing nothing around her until the thought cut through the fog in her mind that she had no idea where she was, or where AnaMaria's cabin might be.

Miranda was lost, and in so many ways, that she didn't know where to turn next.

AnaMaria found her on deck some time later. Miranda had no feeling of the passage of time as she stood at the bow, watching the moonlight reflect off the fractured, dark surface of the water. The dark skinned girl had to speak several times to get her attention, draping a blanket over her shoulders to ward off the light mist of rain that had also escaped her notice.

"Come on, Lady." AnaMaria coaxed, drawing her below deck, "A doctor needs to rest, too."

Laying on the second, worn mattress hastily installed in the First Mate's quarters, Miranda felt as far from restful as humanly possible. Exhausted she may be, yet with every nerve of her alive and aching. Bemused, she traced her still tingling lips, and wondered with a fluttering wave of longing if she would dream of laying in scarred and lean, tattooed arms.

But the arms that gripped her in her dreams that night were hard and heavy. The eyes were not the deep pools of molten brown, but cold, and blue, and steely possessive. The body that covered hers did not wake her senses with the wild promises she'd only ever heard others speak of in hushed, ecstatic whispers, but woke her instead with stifled cries of remembered agony and shame, leaving her huddled in the dark with her pillow clenched to her mouth, praying for dawn to come and chase away the ghost of the man who had sworn to love and to cherish. 


	14. Chapter13 Part A

Greetings again, gentle readers. This particular chapter is a monster...so much so, that I've had to divide it up into two parts, which I will upload back to back. I had no idea I was writting them this big, until trying to upload them sent the error codes to sounding on my poor little iMac.

Sorry for not getting this up last week -- real life intruded with a bang, and I've been a wee bit distracted ever since.

But here we are now! Back, and ready to...well, whatever it is I'm doing.

Before we start, let me first say thank you to my latest (and most vocal) reviewer, MichiruOkami! Hi, Michiru! As you may have guessed, we know each other off board, and so her reviews are also filled with in gags that nobody else will get. Especially the saddened disposition of the "mourning pastries". For those of you who are uninitiated, a word of advice: Don't ask, mate. LOL!

Michiru, thank you for those reviews! Though I'd hope that you really wouldn't want to be a whoreson...might have some 'splainin' to do with that one. I'm finding it a bit difficult to imagine Miranda and Freya cut from the same mold...Miranda is a lot more restrained, repressed, and a lot of other "re"s. Freya would have just set Dunnthorpe's ass on fire, and been done with the bastard. =) And no...no Sith Lords shall breathe their way into this little plotted part of the world. Although Dunnthorpe is just about nasty enough to have taken lessons from one. Sorry to say that this particular "gentleman" will be around for quite a while. More's the pity.

LOL! Glad to see that the end of Chapter 3 had you scrambling past the intro to Chapter 4 -- that's precisely the reaction I was looking to cause.

Saxony, Redbud-Tree, Captain Tish, and Completeopposites: Glad you enjoyed the growing tension between our dear Captain Sparrow, and the Lady Warringford. Let me just say that it only gets worse before it gets better.

I'll now take this time to remind everybody that all original characters, and the situation are mine, mine, MINE!!!

All established characters are the copyrighted property of that big mouse with the really big chunks of real estate, and the really imposing herd of legal advisors. Just keeping everything on the up and up...dammit.

Now...bring me that next chapter! Na-na-na-na-na-na-na-na-na-na...and really bad proofing...Read on, me hearties, yo ho!  
  
**

Chapter 13

**  
  
Two days out from Port Royal and Jack Sparrow felt more like his old self again. Standing by the helm, swaying easily with the rolling of the ship and trading insults with his First Mate restored that sense of continuity so lacking for him on land.

The crew was in a light hearted mood. Away from the looming threat of the King's Navy, and on their way to a friendly port where honest coin would be theirs in exchange for goods not quite as legitimately attained had cheered them immensely. Even dour Joshamee Gibbs had brightened at the prospects of their trip to Havana. Though the old sea dog's mutterings were beginning to get on his Captain's nerves.

"Unlucky enough to have one woman aboard," Gibbs had groused, risking the wrath of the hot tempered AnaMaria, "But now there's two of 'em."

"Bound to be bad luck on this voyage, you mark my words." he'd fumed, and several men had to turn away to hide their laughter when Jack had rolled his eyes expressively behind the Quartermaster's back and mouthed the familiar warning in silent unison.

Not that he might guess from looking around now that there was a second woman aboard. The Lady Warringford had managed to avoid him at every turn since the evening of their departure.

"She's...she's not feeling well." AnaMaria had informed him that first morning out, herself delivering the bitter fever remedy to his cabin.

Jack was sure he saw evasiveness in her dark face. For whatever reason, Miranda hadn't emerged from hiding that day, or the next. However, there had been reports from his mid-watch of seeing the lady wandering the deck in the late hours.

"Seemed nice enough," Klebar had remarked, rubbing at his shaven scalp, "Just didn't look like she wanted company, if you'll take my meaning. So, we let her be."

Jack was not a man usually given to bouts of self recrimination, and certainly not when it came to stealing a kiss from at pretty lass, but he did suspect that his actions were to blame for her seclusion.

Perhaps, he reflected, it was for the best. At the moment, Jack wasn't terribly happy about his own behavior.

Not about that all too brief time in his cabin. Quite the contrary, the Lady's reaction to his presence had been most entertaining. Rather, it was the most unwelcome feeling of uncertainty, of feeling that playing with her like in such a fashion just wasn't...right somehow. This brought with it an entire bulk of distractions all on its own. Dalliances with the fairer sex were not supposed to leave his feeling like this -- conflicted, unsure, or addled like a moonstruck boy -- not to a man of his worldly ways. Under normal circumstances, the most Jack felt accustomed to worrying about was a stinging cheek, or maybe a lighter purse in exchange for a few pleasant, rum hazed memories of bodies grappling in a darkened room. And perhaps another trinket or two to weave into his hair.

Miranda Warringford was not shaping up to be 'normal circumstances'.

Jack shook his head ruefully. He should have listened to that wise, warning voice when he'd had the chance.

"Six points to our larboard side." he called, returning his attention to the ship's compass to make their course.

"Six points, aye!" AnaMaria responded smartly from the helm.

Jack squinted up into the rigging. "Mr. Gibbs, why don't we take advantage of this helpful weather?"

"Aye, Cap'n." The Quartermaster raised his voice to a bellow. "More sail, you dogs! Cap'n wants to see if the old girl's learned how to fly yet."

Good natured laughter followed this as the crew took to the lines to let out more canvas. The **_Pearl_** surged onward, picking up speed as more sails caught the steady wind.

"Might as well tie the wheel down." Jack suggested, "Unless the weather decides to be unkind, we'll be holding to this course for most of the afternoon."

"I'll stay with it." AnaMaria offered. He could almost hear her next thought -- that she wouldn't be good for much else until her side healed.

"Good idea." he amended, smoothly shifting track. Lifting his kohl-rimmed eyes to a distant bank of clouds, he went on, "Those could hold a few surprises for us later if we're not paying attention." Just then he spied a form that, while familiar, was distinctly out of place. "Well, well. Look who's decided to rejoin the land of the living. Hold our course, luv."

He started down to the main deck, feeling AnaMaria's eyes on his back. The girl was worried, and not doing a very good job of hiding it. He approached his quarry casually, leaning against the rails with equal nonchalance.

The Lady glanced his way, but wouldn't meet his eyes. "How have you been feeling, Captain?" she asked then, "Well, I trust?"

"I've no complaints." Jack returned with a pang of dismay at her cool, neutral tones.

"And you've kept up with your medicine?"

"You should know, " he said with a shudder, "You set AnaMaria to making sure of it. Said she'd knock me down, sit on my legs and pinch my nose shut if she had to."

Miranda's brows lifted. "I would hope she wouldn't have to go that far, but in any case, it won't be necessary now." She looked up finally, her face pale and drawn. "There's been more than enough time for the bark to do its work You'll not need to take any more. Unless the fever takes hold again, that is."

"That's a relief," Jack said with some feeling, noting at the same time the violet shadows under her eyes. "And is there anything in that handy case for when the physician is under the weather?"

"It's nothing, Captain. Only a little trouble sleeping. That's all."

Remembering the stay at the roadside inn, Jack guessed it was more a case of interrupted sleep. Knowing what he did of the lady, it wasn't hard to imagine what the subject of those nightmares might be...or to guess that she probably wouldn't take kindly to what she might consider an intrusion on his part should he inquire farther. In the interests of keeping the peace, Jack decided to change the topic.

"You don't have the look of someone uncomfortable with sea travel, though. I'm taking it that this is nothing new to you?"

She shifted slightly, returning to her study of nothing. "I'm sure you've guessed that already, Captain. Why the sudden fascination?"

"Humor me. The skies are clear and the wind is good. At this point, I'm thinking we'll be in for a fairly boring sail." He grinned, and hauled himself up to sit on the railing, grabbing hold of the lines to steady himself. "Not much to do then but trade tales, or drink...and drink...and then tell tall tales."

The corner of her mouth lifted. "Alright then, yes -- I've made several crossings in my life. My family's been sea farers for generations. In fact," she gave him an impish glance, "One of my father's ancestors sailed on the **_Golden Hind_**."

Jack's eyebrows shot upward. "With 'El Draco' himself, eh? Any other pirates in the family?"

The lady shrugged. "Mostly merchant men. Successful ones, so I suppose in a way, that would be a yes."

He snorted. Miranda had an odd sense of humor for someone so primly mannered. "So the sea's in your blood, is it -- besides being born there, and all."

"You could say that." She laughed then. "My first trip to the Eastern waters had my instructors back in England begging father to never take me out on voyage again. I was all of about eleven when we reached home, and it took them weeks to get the sea out of my walk. Not to mention some of the phrases out of my vocabulary."

Jack smiled too. The idea of a well bred, well dressed girl child walking and talking like an old deck hand made for quite a picture.

"Actually," she went on, "That particular trip was supposed to have happened a couple of years prior, but..." She made a face and looked embarrassed. "We were a week out from London, fighting the wind all the way. I was -- eight? Or nine...very young, at any rate, and having the time of my life. But I got bored. So, I started following the cabin boy around. He was only a few years older than me, and I thought at the time that he was rather handsome.

"So naturally, I pinched some dried peas from the ship's stores, and started pelting the poor child. It never occurred to me that he might find the whole thing annoying after a while."

"So what did he do about it?" Jack asked neutrally, but there was an odd flutter in his stomach, and his mouth had gone quite dry as he watched her distant face, "This handsome cabin boy of yours?"

Miranda was lost in her memories. "He went aloft -- straight into the shrouds. Then, he yelled at me to go away...that a little girl like me had no business on the deck of a ship."

"And you didn't like that, did you?"

"Oh, no. Not in the slightest. So, I started climbing too. I was part way up the mizzenmast before Father spotted me.

"Then, he started bellowing, I missed my grip, and..." Her hand lifted, then described a falling motion.

Jack winced sympathetically.

"Straight to the deck." she concluded. "I broke my wrist, Father and the boy were frightened half to death, and then the Captain -- well, he..."

"Captain Rennling was furious." Jack supplied finally, and Miranda looked startled. "He ordered twenty lashes to the boy for egging you on.

"You cried." he continued, smiling gently at her dawning comprehension, "You didn't cry when you fell, but you carried on so piteously when they punished the lad, telling them that it was your own fault for starting up the mast, that your father had them stop after only ten. Then you bawled out the poor soul that had to salt the boy's back, and that boy had to spend the whole rest of the voyage being teased by his shipmates about his little sweetheart who stood up for him. Even after we met up with that second ship that took you and your family back to London." He shook his head, marveling at this strange turn, and held out his hand. "It's good to see you again, _Miss_ Warringford."

She took his hand numbly. An automatic response, while she continued to stare. Then, she laughed again, genuinely, and with a smile that lit up her face. "Likewise, surely." She returned the shake, and pulled away to brush windblown strands of hair from her eyes. "But this is extraordinary, Captain! After all these years, here you are -- all grown up, and your own ship, and...piraty..."

"And back with his little sweetheart?" Jack interrupted, bobbing his eyebrows, "The one who thought him handsome enough to chase up a mast?"

Miranda blushed furiously, and Jack found he was enjoying himself immensely just then. "I thought there was something familiar about that Warringford name, but didn't place it until you started reminiscing. The years _have_ been kind. The little red haired moppet with the handful of dried peas turns into the lovely, gracious lady who tried to shoot my head off."

He grinned, and pointed to the much shortened rope of hair at the one side of his head -- the one she'd shot through the night they had met. "Good thing for me your aim didn't improve as well."

Some part of that little moppet remained in her, for she went so far as to stick her tongue out at him.

Another mischievous thought struck him. Jack hopped down from the railing, sweeping his hand around.

"Care to finish what you started, Milady?"

"I beg your pardon?"

"There's the mizzenmast." he pointed out helpfully, gesturing with his head.

"I can see that." she returned with obvious trepidation.

"And?" He waited, then sighed, spreading his hands toward her in his exaggerated way. "Oh, come on, woman! Is this the same girl who tried to kick old Rennling's Quartermaster -- who only a week ago was ready to take on five mad, vicious pirates with only a single shot?"

"Four mad, vicious pirates," Miranda corrected, though he thought she was starting to look a bit wild around the eyes, "And one mad, viscous, slightly unconscious one.

"And that last adventure of mine was...it was over twenty five years ago, Captain!"

"So?"

"So?" she repeated, voice climbing in her agitation. Jack saw Tearlach look up from his busy coiling of the lines, staring at them with interest.

"So...that trip didn't exactly end well for either of us. Did it?"

Jack sighed again, and shook his head in a parody of regret. "So you're telling me that that obnoxious, though dashingly handsome cabin boy was right all along, eh? No place on the deck of a ship for a..." He looked her up and down, his expression hovering somewhere between suggestive and dismissive. "...little girl? Best get below where you belong, then. Go on," He flapped his hands at her, shooing her away. "Off you go, now."

Miranda's eyes were fiery green sparks. If looks could kill, this one would have roughly approximated a cannon landing on his head. Really, he thought as she glowered up at him, actually trembling with outrage, the woman was absolutely adorable when she was like this. Like a kitten. A soft, fluffy little kitten -- just before it sank it's little fangs up to the gums in your hand.

"Yes?" he inquired mildly. She grabbed her skirts into her fists, flinging them down in a display of temper. Then, she called him a name that made him blink.

"Why Miranda, what a thing to say. I'm wounded. Truly." But he couldn't keep the laughter from his voice.

"In your ear!" she snapped and stalked away, heels clicking ominously on the deck. He watched her go. Past the main mast. Past the mizzenmast, to disappear down the aft hatch into the lower deck.

"In my ear?" Jack looked around. Several men were staring openly, many of them not bothering to hide their grins.

"Was it something I said?" he asked innocently.

With nothing better to do, he worked among the crew for a time. Helping to adjust the sails, arrange the lines, then going aft again to check their course at the helm.

Still on a true heading. Still helped by the favorable winds.Still making good headway.

He had just considered a visit to the galley, when something small struck him in the back of his head. He heard it bounce off the deck and turned, searching for whatever had hit him. A tiny, round green object rolled by. It was a -- Jack stared -- a dried pea.

Another one struck him square in the nose. He flinched, covering this with his hand to shield from any further attacks, and glanced around.

"Why, you crafty little minx..."

Miranda glared up from the gun deck, a triumphant curve to her lips, and a fist brimming with more ammunition. She was dressed in men's clothing. Jack raised his brows. She must have raided his own cabin, for there she stood in the very britches, waistcoat, and shirt that she'd given him.

"Changed your mind, have you?" he called out, then ducked another volley. The next one caught him right between the eyes, and he waved his hands in surrender.

"Enough! White flag... Parlay!"

Her hand lowered. "I'm listening."

"Hold to course." he said aside to AnaMaria, who snickered out an acknowledgement, and made his way down the steps at his loose limbed, sun addled best.

"Daft. The both of 'em daft." Gibbs muttered behind him.

"So," Jack began, "Feel like taking a little trip up..."

Another shot to the nose. This was becoming embarrassing!

"I called parlay!" he protested.

"And I'm not a pirate." Miranda smirked, "So I don't think it applies.

"Besides," she went on sweetly, " Weren't you the one who said we weren't enemies?" She fluttered her lashes winsomely. Jack wasn't sure if he wanted to kiss her, or turn her over his knee.

"I did say that." he admitted, "But now I'm beginning to wonder." He shielded his face again when her hands lifted. "Mercy, lady -- for the sake of my poor, battered nose."

She laughed and pocketed her remaining ammunition. But she didn't look quite so sure of herself the closer they got to the shrouds -- the ladder-like lines that would take them aloft. Jack climbed up onto the channel plank, then pulled her up beside.

"Now just remember," he instructed, "Keep to the windward side. That way, you're blown into the lines -- not away. "And don't take your hand off of one rope 'till you've got ahold of another, savvy?"

Miranda swallowed hard, then nodded.

They started up. Jack stayed right alongside her, giving instructions and encouragements over the ever increasing booming of the black sails.

"Not here." he said when they had reached the first platform. "Come on -- not that much farther to go." He passed her where the shrouds narrowed to the second, topmost platform, climbing through the 'lubber's hole', and holding out a hand to her. "Come on," he called, "It's alright, I've got you."

She reached up, and he pulled her to stand with him, then guided her hand to the tarred standing lines. Her knuckles were white, he noted, as she clung to it. Come to think of it, the grip she had on his arm right now was surprisingly strong as well.

"You really do feel the wind up here." she remarked in a shaky voice.

"Oh, yes. But you should try this in real weather." He grinned wickedly. "Really gets the heart going then."

"I can imagine," she quavered. He glanced at her, then shook his head.

"It doesn't have quite the same impact unless you open your eyes, Milady."

Miranda forced a nervous laugh. "If I faint, does this mean you'll leave me up here, or carry me down over your shoulder like a sack of flour?"

"Oh, I don't think you're the kind to do that. Come on," he coaxed, "Have a look."

"I must be mad..."

He barely heard this over the sound of the canvas, but then she carefully peered about. The death grip on his arm relaxed. Her hand slid away, went to another rung of the lines, and she leaned into the shroud.

"Amazing."

"Nothing quite like it for clearing the head."

"I think I see what you mean." she admitted. "You must spend a good deal of time up here."

"Not near enough. And usually, it's over there." He pointed ahead and up. Miranda followed his gesture to the main mast. The tallest of the three spars, and much taller than the one they stood upon now.

"The...the main-topgallant-mast head." she recited slowly, "I remember the name." She shivered and looked away from that high point. "Not sure if I'll be up to taking on that challenge."

"Oh, not today at any rate, Milady." Jack shrugged. "Another time, maybe. How does right after breakfast strike you?"

The look she gave him spoke volumes.

"Just having a bit of fun with you, darlin'." he chuckled. "Now, the view's nice enough here, but you've still got a lot of sail in your way, sooo..." He took her elbow, steering her to the side of the platform that faced into the wind.

"Try this instead."  
  
**_A/N:_**Please move on to the next chapter for...well -- the rest of this one! 


	15. Chapter13 Part B

As promised, the rest of:  
  
**

Chapter 13

** continued:  
  
He stepped back, allowing her to enjoy the moment for herself. The first unobstructed view to their stern, with nothing but the sky, and the clouds, and the sun on the water.

"Oh..." she breathed in a tiny voice. "Oh, my."

Jack moved up behind her, pleased by her appreciation. It shouldn't have surprised him -- the sea was in her blood, after all. Had she been born a man, she'd have probably been encouraged to this sort of thing. Maybe even trained to command a ship.

Of course, if she had been born a man, he certainly wouldn't be enjoying this moment near as much.

Miranda's eyes were closed again, only this time, it was to tip her head back with a smile of contentment for the wind that blew wisps of hair back from her face.

Impulsively, Jack reached in to the neatly coiled roll at the back of her head, pulled out the two combs holding it in place, and freed the mass of her auburn hair.

She started, unsettled by his contact, then held very still while he passed his fingers indulgently through the rich strands.

Jack leaned over her shoulder, keeping his eye fixed to the scene before them. "Not something to be experienced only with sight, eh?"

Then he drew back, taking with him the awareness of a subtle fragrance of orange blossoms and sandalwood. He slipped her combs into his pocket.

"Nothing quite like it." he said again and sat down at the edge of the platform, hooking his arm through a space in the taut lines, dangling a leg carelessly into space. Sweeping off his hat, he savored the tug of the salt air through his own wild scalp.

From the corner of his eye, he saw her watching. Then, she too lowered herself to sit, though well away from the edge.

"This is where you come to forget all the clutter." Jack told her. "Whenever you start to take things too seriously, or when you feel like everything's closing in on you, dragging you down. Up here...it all gets clearer."

"I wasn't aware that you took much seriously at all, Captain." Miranda observed, though somewhat distantly. She was still taking in the sight he'd presented her with.

"Difficult to play the fool all the time, Lady. It can wear on a body after a while."

Lord -- he was actually babbling! He knew it, and also knew that he was dangerously close to baring a dearly guarded piece of his soul for her casual inspection. Not exactly something he was accustomed to doing.

Not sober, at any rate. But then, he usually didn't have company along for one of these interludes, and certainly not somebody like this. Somebody who would be hard pressed to understand what a place like this could mean to a man.

"It's like...like cleansing a part of yourself, somehow." Miranda said suddenly, and he looked up with a new, rising estimation.

"Like flying?" Jack offered then, remembering the sight of her delighted face, arms outstretched like a bird in flight as she'd perched on the back of that massive horse of hers. "Like there's nothing to tie you down, like --"

He stopped, knowing the word that he wanted, but unlike the last time he'd spoken it aloud, he wasn't drunk. He was not about to make a bloody fool of himself all over again.

"Freedom." Miranda finished solemnly, even raptly, and Jack felt his breath catch. "This is what it is to be free."

Then she met his eyes apprehensively, as if she were the one who feared to say too much. Whose soul was on display, and she expected his mockery.

Nothing could have been farther from his mind. She understood -- and with that realization, Jack smiled. A real smile, with no trace of mockeries, or mischief, or of anything cynical. Feeling all at once closer to the Jack Sparrow that he had been before the mutiny, before the marooning. Feeling now that the two people sitting atop this mast were not just commoner and gentry, or pirate and landowner, or even man and woman.

They were, in fact; friends.

He contemplated this even stranger turn of events while they sat in silence. She returned his smile. Shyly, but warmly, and they returned to watch the play of light on the waters. And when his companion began to rub at her arms, feeling the bite of the wind through her thin shirtsleeves, he scooted himself beside her and removed his coat to drape it around her. She gave him a grateful look, and didn't object when he rubbed briskly at her arms, generating some warmth through the heavier weave. Nor did she pull away when he left his arm to hang around her shoulders, but leaned into his side, her hair brushing his jaw.

He caught another breath filled with orange blossoms and sandalwood, and sighed, resting his temple against the mast. "I never forgot, you know." he said after a long while, and felt her lift her head. "I never forgot the little girl who cried for me. Do you remember what you did just before your father hustled you onto the return ship?"

He glanced down. Her brow was furrowed with thought.

"My bracelet." she answered softly. "I had a little bracelet. I gave it to you." She looked up with disbelief. "You're not telling me you kept it after all these years?"

"No," he chuckled, "I had some lean times in my misspent youth, and those little gold beads were sometimes all that stood between your handsome cabin boy and starvation.

"So I traded them off, bit by bit...all but one." He touched at his braided chin. Miranda sat up, narrowing her eyes. He felt the slightest brush at his beard.

"You did keep it." she remarked, sounding -- pleased? "Is that what all of these are?" Her hand touched the long string of decorations that fell at his left cheek, then the shorter length on his headscarf. "They're memories, aren't they? Tell me about one?"

"Which one would you like to hear about?" he asked with amusement. Another audience eager for the exploits of Captain Jack Sparrow.

"Oh, I don't know...what about this one?" Miranda indicated the large coin, complete with the dangling silver charms that brushed his shoulder.

"Not sure if your Ladyship will be wanting to hear about that one."

"Humor me." she retorted dryly, "You're the one who said this would be a boring trip."

"Aye, that I did. But it is a long story, and not really one a Lady such as yourself would appreciate, I think. Although..." He grinned cheekily, "It does have its dramatic moments. Did you know that acquiring this little bauble almost got your old sweetheart turned into a eunuch? What a tragedy that would have been. You see, it all started when --"

"Never mind."

"But you're the one who --"

"Never mind." Miranda repeated, crimsoning yet again.

"Another time, then." he laughed, "Besides, we've been up here long enough, and those clouds are telling me we're going to be in for some weather, later." He pointed out to the thunderheads moving toward them. "You won't want to be up here for that." Then he squinted at the horizon. There was another ship off of their rudder. Far enough to only register as a mere speck, but he caught it anyway.

"Something else out there?" Miranda wondered, noticing his intense stare.

Jack shook his head. "Nothing to worry about. Just that it's always a good thing to keep track of anyone who's sharing the sea lanes with you." He made a note to mention this distant ship to his watch crew. Just in case.

"Ready to head down?"

"In a moment." Miranda was busily braiding her hair into a single thick plait. "You took my combs out, Captain. I'll need to be able to keep this out of my eyes."

"It looks better down."

She laughed. "At my age? Don't be absurd. Hardly what I'd call proper."

Jack rolled his eyes. At her age indeed -- as if she thought herself some ancient, gray haired biddy? As to propriety...

"Oh, no. Hardly proper at all. As opposed to dressing like a man, climbing up to the top of the mizzenmast, and spending time alone with a lecherous pirate, I suppose?" He leaned in very close. "So, did you enjoy it, Miranda...getting into my britches?"

She scowled, but her eyes danced with humor.

Then, the world went dark. She had thrown his coat over his head, and while he fought to free himself, could plainly hear her bell like laughter.

"Fair enough, but I'd at least like to know this much," He shrugged back into his coat. "If your father hadn't scared you all those years ago, what would you have done if you'd caught the lad?"

Interesting...the Lady immediately glanced away, coloring deeply. Obviously self conscious, and not terribly happy about it.

"I see." he said, feeling quite pleased with himself, "Well...you've caught me at last, Miranda. Now's your chance.

"Oh, come on, luv. Don't be shy."

She looked up. The flash of mischief in her face was the only warning he got before--

Jack sighed, holding a hand to his nose, and watched the dried pea that had impacted there roll off the platform.

"I suppose you think I deserved that." he said sourly, then added, "Your father named you for the wrong character in that play. You should have been called 'Ariel', after that sprite."

Miranda only answered with a wicked little smirk.

"Come on, then." Jack got to his feet, pulling her up as well. "Time to go."

Oh, yes...time to go, before he did something incredibly stupid. Something that might destroy this new friendship in its infancy.

"Oh, dear." Miranda said weakly then, and she was looking down through the hole in the platform. She'd looked unnerved before, but now she was truly frightened.

"Don't look down." he said seriously, "You did make it up here alright, after all."

"That was climbing up." she reminded, voice raising a bit. "You climb up, you're looking up. You climb down, you're looking...Oh, dear."

Another feline analogy sprang to his mind. "Like the cat up a tree, are we? Can't figure out how to get back to ground again?"

The look she was giving him was highly unflattering.

"Meow." she said flatly. "Meow, meow. Now how do I do this without breaking my neck?"

"Same thing applies, luv. Keep to the windward side, and watch your handholds. I'll go down ahead of you."

"So I can fall on _you_, then? Oh, good plan."

"You're not going to fall." he laughed, clapping his hat firmly in place. "Although, I can think of worse ways to go..." Fortunately, she was too intimidated by their height to strike at him.

In the end, there was no other way to convince her onto the shroud than to climb to the other side, and talk her down step by step, facing her all the way. There was only one misstep, but it left his heart pounding sure enough. She had missed a rung with her foot, and in searching for it, her grip gave way. It was only a small slide down to the next rung, but Jack had to talk very fast to calm her.

"Look at me." he concluded firmly. "No, not down, luv. Look at me." He held up two fingers, pointing directly to his eyes. "Now, what do you have to remember?"

"One hand for myself," she repeated in a quavering voice, her eyes enormous, and dark against the pallor of her face, "And one for the ship."

"That's right. Never let go with one hand 'til you're secure with the other. Ready? There's a lass. And -- step...good. And another. That's it, luv, you're doing fine..."

And so it went, until they reached the relative safety of the channel plank. Once her feet were securely on a firmer surface, she rounded on him.

"You can think of 'worse ways to go', Captain?" she repeated, and her tone was incredulous.

"Oh, and what about you, then? 'Meow'?" he flung back. They stared at each other, and Miranda burst out laughing again. Jack found it impossible to not join in.

"Something else you had to be there for?" Gibbs' voice hailed then, and Jack turned to find a small crowd approaching. The men were looking on happily, but Gibbs looked particularly beatific, smiling openly at the lady as Jack lifted her down to the deck.

"So, that'll be your first trip to the top, ma'am?" the Quartermaster asked hopefully.

"It most certainly was, Mr. Gibbs." Miranda affirmed, and seemed rather askance at the warm reception.

Gibbs' smile grew even wider. For a moment, Jack thought the old dog might very well kiss her.

"'S your lucky day, Joshamee." Mr. Crimp barked, clapping Gibbs on the back, "The lady's got to pay her footing!" A cheer went up from the assembled crew. Miranda turned to Jack for an explanation.

"Old tradition," he told her, "See, when a crewman's taken his first trip up top, all hands are treated to a special ration of rum." He looked around, and spotted AnaMaria still at the helm. Her dark face was no less amused than his own.

"I think you just joined the crew, Lady." she shouted easily over the din.

Miranda took in all the happy faces, then spread her hands in a helpless little gesture.

"Who am I to break with tradition?" she asked, bringing another cheer from the men. "I'll join you at dinner, then. Captain Sparrow," She turned, and held out her hand. "I'll have my combs back, if you please."

"Still say it looks better down." he muttered, fishing her ornaments from his pocket.

"Duly noted, Captain. Now, if you'll excuse me." And she moved off to the aft hatch. "I can at least make myself presentable for the occasion."

Jack grinned after her, noticing a few other heads turn to admire her trim form.

Yet even so, he thought with a flash of annoyance, she had still never addressed him in any way other than formally.  
  
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.

Supper was, as always, a lively affair. Jack listened with half an ear to the snippets of conversation audible above the scrapping of utensils on plates, and the sounds of lifted mugs returning to the tables. All in all, a good natured gathering. Jack relaxed further into his seat. He'd learned the hard way to pay close attention to the mood of his crew. Three days spent in alcoholic despair on an island in the middle of nowhere had taught him that indelible lesson.

The special rum ration was received with enthusiasm, and the inevitable call went up for recounts of past exploits. With his usual aplomb, Joshamee Gibbs answered this challenge, and everyone settled down to listen. The subject was familiar, being a tale of one of Jack's own adventures. But it wasn't long before the Quartermaster began adding his own embellishments.

"So there's our Jack," Gibbs intoned dramatically to his captive listeners, "Handbound, noose tightening 'round his neck, an' only a swords edge keepin' him from..." He drew a finger across his throat and made an unpleasant gurgling sound.

"An' here come the executioner, big as an ox, an' his axe raised up ready to split Jack's skull like a melon--"

Jack wrinkled his nose. That memory was all too clear, and certainly not one of his shining moments. But he soon found himself forced to hide a smile when Gibbs' recount of his Captain's escape from the gallows began to stray towards the fantastical. The number of Norrington's men seemed to increase each time Gibbs told this particular tale, and Jack was certain that if he and young Will had landed half as many of the 'mighty blows' now described, he'd still not be able to raise his arms.

He tipped his head back against the bulkhead, scanning the rapt audience through half lidded eyes.No doubt that Joshamee was an accomplished storyteller. One had only to look at the crew to see this fact. Even those who had sailed with Jack the longest, and had surely heard this story before; were caught up in it.

The 'youngsters', however, were entranced. They clung to the bewhiskered pirate's every word with wide eyes taking in each broad gesture and fierce grimace. The old scoundrel was clearly in his element. His voice alternated from near whispers to thunderous bellows, hands jabbing the air as he described a thoroughly fictional barrage of shot that no one could have possibly survived -- much less dodged!

Jack fought to keep his neutral expression as young Mr. Gordon wrenched his eyes from Gibbs to stare awe filled at his Captain.

_ Aye, lad,_ Jack thought,_ I'd like to meet_ that_ Jack Sparrow too._ He gave the youth a nod and a slight wink, then turned casually to study the upright figure nearby.

Even without her finery, the Lady Warringford couldn't help but look out of place amidst the rough crew of the **_Pearl_**. Everything -- from her very posture, to the neatness of her simple gown -- fairly screamed 'outsider'. He noted with regret that her hair was up in a tamed coil. A proper Lady again.

Yet Jack was relieved to see that she appeared at ease with her surroundings. Never having had a member of the peerage willingly travel with him before, he'd resigned himself to the possibilities of aristocratic tantrums and outrageous demands. Quite the contrary, outside of wandering the deck at odd hours -- and showing a lethal accuracy with dried peas -- Miranda seemed content to keep from underfoot.

She was giving Mr. Gibbs her full attention, her mug of celebratory rum balanced lightly on her knee.

Though Jack suspected that the flickering lamplight had little to do with the twitch he detected at the corner of her mouth.

With another spurious recount, this time including the brave Captain Sparrow hurling insults and challenges at his foes before leaping manfully (Jack snorted into his tankard) from the battlements of Fort Charles, Gibbs brought his tale to a flourishing finish. His audience gave an appreciative cheer, and Jack raised the tankard in salute.

"Well done, mate." he said approvingly, while Mr. Cotton held out a newly filled mug of ale to the Quartermaster, "I'd have almost believed you'd been right there with me."

Mr. Gibbs grinned impishly, returned the salute, and took a well deserved drink.

"Remarkable." Miranda breathed softly, and Jack glanced her way.

"Milady has enjoyed tonight's entertainment?"

"Indeed," she replied, "I can scarce believe my ears."

"Oh -- aye, ma'am." Gibbs nodded emphatically, "But t'wouldn't be no exaggeration I'd be tellin' when I say it'd take far more than that to do in our Jack." He raised his drink again, and Jack held out his own tankard for a refill, his rum ration, like Gibbs', only a memory.

From the corner of his eye, he saw the Lady nod slowly.

"I would imagine so." Miranda agreed, raising her voice a bit. She sipped at her own diluted (at her request, Jack recalled) rum, then pursed her lips. "It was a lucky thing, though. Mr. Turner being there and all." She paused, staring fixedly into her drink, then, "How dreadful it would have been had Captain Sparrow been well hung."

Jack started, ale sloshing over the rim of his tankard to splash to the deck. He snapped his head around to stare unbelieving at her, while Gibbs choked messily in mid-swallow, and thumped hard at his chest.

After a moment of stunned silence, the galley erupted with whoops and howls of laughter. Sam Bottoms even forgot himself enough to give the little minx a resounding thump on the back that nearly sent her from her seat.

Blushing, she held Jack's eye, her own widened in artfully contrived innocence. But the smile she struggled to contain quite got away from her this time, and soon she was laughing as merrily as the others.

Jack considered her for a time, charmed again by this sudden shift in her manner, then threw his head back and roared right along with them. "A hit, mates!" he cried, clapping a hand to his heart, "The lady has dealt me a mortal blow!"

"Aye," came the voice of AnaMaria from somewhere behind them, "A mortal puncturing of the Cap'n's ego!"

More laughter followed, accompanied by the clattering and shuffling of those on the next watch clearing away their dinnerware, and calls from the rest for another tale.

Under the cover of this noise, Jack rose and stretched, then leaned in close to the Lady, pitching his voice so that only she could hear.

"Alas, Milady..." he swayed slightly, and waggled his eyebrows comedically, "I'm afraid even Will couldn't spare me from that fate."

Her own brows lifted. "Surely, Captain, a man of your renown has no need to boast?"

The voice was coolly appraising, but her eyes still held that wicked spark.

"Ah..." Time to change tactics, he decided then, and moved even nearer. A deliberate invasion of her personal boundaries. If the Lady wanted to play, who was he to pass up on the fun?

"And why would I do a thing like that...Miranda?" With that, he let loose with the most charming smile in his arsenal. One that had never failed to work before.

It didn't fail him now. Miranda stared up as if hypnotized. Her lips parted slowly, and he could clearly see the pulse hammering at the base of her neck. It occurred to him once again that what he might be doing wasn't really...fair.

An enormous clattering broke the moment. Somebody had dropped a pile of crockery into the cook's wash barrel. With a guilty start, Miranda jumped to her feet, glancing around to see if her momentary lapse had been noticed.

No one was paying them the slightest heed. Another crewman had already started up a song about the girls of Madagascar.

Miranda returned her attention to him, and gave a slight curtsy. "Good evening, Captain Sparrow."

"Good evening, Lady Warringford." he intoned just as formally. Jack inclined his head politely, but did not release her eyes, and it was with obvious difficulty that she looked away. Forcing a smile, she raised her voice to be heard above the noise.

"Gentlemen, I must bid you a good evening." She saluted the crew with her raised tankard. "Thank you for celebrating my recent bout of madness,"

Another wave of humor from the men.

"But now it's someone else's turn to earn the next round." With that, she sketched a small curtsy again, then drained the remains of her drink. Turning away, she deposited the tankard into the wash barrel, and made to depart.

Jack followed her with veiled eyes. She didn't leave immediately, but pulled AnaMaria aside, whispering urgently with her hand hovering over the taller woman's side. He saw AnaMaria nod, give a slight wince, and lead the way from the galley.

But just before she passed through the hatchway, Miranda paused. Almost against her will, it seemed, she looked back over her shoulder, and gave another one of those guilty starts when she realized he was watching.

She disappeared from sight, then. As she did, Jack could have sworn the corner of her mouth lifted in a wistful smile.

He took his seat and called for more ale, and told himself that what he really wanted was to stay right here on this bench. Not follow like some moonstruck adolescent after mischievous eyes and a laughing mouth.

His stomach apparently thought it knew better. It lurched rather painfully in protest, just as it had the other night in his cabin, and Jack frowned.

"How does she do that?" he asked of nobody in particular.  
  
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**_A/N:_** Whew! That chapter was a bigg'un! And the next one turned out to be even bigger, so it's been officially divided into two seperate ones. When I get going, I REALLY get going. Very wordy. Terrible, chronic case of verbosis.

As always, please Read and Review! See you soon with the next instalment! 


	16. Chapter14

Greetings again! Sorry about the wait...but then, that last chapter WAS huge!

Hello, DemonicPelicans -- wherever did THAT name come from? LOL! Glad you're enjoying this incursion into my twisted psyche! Thank you for that review, and I hope you enjoy this, and all the stuff that's coming.

Saxony, I'm afraid it'll be quite a while before the two of them "do anything about this"...more's the pity. But you'll just have to wait and see (evil grin!)

CompleteOpposites, Captain Tish, and Redbud-Tree, thank you again! And by general concensus, the most popular part of all of this by a landslide seems to be...the dried peas! LOL! Had I but known!

Hope you all enjoy this latest installment...from here on out, everything changes.

With that cheery little thought, I remind one and all that that blasted mouse owns everything I adore, and present you with...

**

Chapter 14

**  
  
"See here?" Miranda asked, pointing with the tips of her scissors, "See how the scar tissue is already forming? That's what the balm is good for."

"I think you've convinced me." the pirate named Vinccensi admitted, staring down at the angry red line. The swarthy, round little fellow, known to his shipmates for reasons beyond her comprehension as "Rat", was the closest thing to a surgeon aboard this ship.

"But what happens if it does infect? Seems to me that the best way's still to just sear it over...No?" he asked when she shook her head rapidly.

"That can often do more damage than the actual injury. You have to be able to keep the wound clean. But if you don't have a good supply of water..." She waited to see if he would pick up on her train of thought.

"Strong spirits -- like rum or whiskey?" 

"Exactly, Mr. Vinccensi. The stronger, the better. And the beauty of it is that it doesn't take all that much to do the job. So, now you swab the area of injury..."

He did this, shaking out some whiskey onto a clean cloth, then dabbing at the wound.

"And now the stitches come out." he said.

"And none too soon, the both of you." their patient groused. "Wastin' fine drink and keepin' a man from his duties. You could at least let a body have a swig 'o that before you start cuttin' into him."

"You've already been at that flask of yours twice since you've been here, Mr. Gibbs. Don't think I haven't noticed." Miranda gave him a pointed look. "And a simple stitch removal hardly constitutes as 'cutting in to you'. Now, if you'll please hold still, this will be over before you know it."

It took a bit longer than that. The fellow simply wouldn't stop flinching every time she cut and removed one of Margret's neat stitches. Miranda suspected that Gibbs was overplaying this a bit, but it really didn't cost her anything to murmur sympathetically as she worked on his arm.

"There you are, Mr. Gibbs. This cut is healing nicely. All you have to do is keep the area clean, and change the dressing regularly." She dabbed at the small dots of blood welling in the spaces the fine waxed thread had occupied, then shook some more strong whiskey onto a corner of her cloth.

The Quartermaster let out his breath in an explosive rush when the alcohol stung him again, then looked on with interest along with Vinccensi as she spread a thin layer of slightly greenish paste over his skin.

"What's in that?" The surgeon bent closer, sniffing suspiciously at the paste.

"Oh, a combination of cajeput oil, some yarrow, and a few other herbs." Miranda wrapped fresh bandages around Gibbs' forearm. "I've learned that it promotes quicker healing. Not to mention eases some of the discomfort."

"She's right about that." Gibbs affirmed, though a bit begrudgingly, "Didn't hurt near as much when she started putting that on it."

"And that's all, Mr. Gibbs." She tucked the ends of the bandage in, and gave the man a pat on the shoulder. "Just try not to do anything too strenuous with that arm for a little while longer."

He thanked her politely, and departed the surgeon's hold. Miranda tidied up her equipment and supplies, holding her scissors briefly over an open candle flame, then rubbing the blades down with more alcohol.

"Doing all that really helps?" Vinccensi watched her put her tools away.

"Oh my, yes." Miranda said firmly. "Every true physician I've ever spoken with in the East has stressed the value of sterilization." Her lips bent in an ironic smile. "For some reason, our 'enlightened' colleagues in the West have managed to miss that part."

Vinccensi grinned back. "The same ones who still think that using ground up bits of old mummies from Egypt works to cure the plague?"

"You've run across that atrocity too?" And she spent the next few pleasant hours trading information and stories with this plain spoken fellow who, according to his own modest words, fell into his medical vocation by reason of having the steadiest hands and strongest stomach.

Later still, finding herself once again drawn to the upper decks, Miranda took the opportunity to quietly study the crew that peopled this imposing vessel. she wasn't sure what she'd expected when confronted with the prospect of sailing with a band of pirates, but these men didn't seem any different from other ship's crews she'd known.

Like any other seamen, they still spoke that same unique language incomprehensible to most landsmen. They had that same brash, loud manner with each other, the same tendency to let fly with the most vile curses in the course of everyday conversation. In short, there was little to differentiate them from a Merchantman's crew.

Except for the fact that this was not a Merchantman. Every one of these men -- from the youngest, who hardly looked old enough to shave, to the oldest fellow whose spectacles and perry wig put her more in mind of a scholar than a sea dog -- made their business in preying off of people like herself.

Not exactly the most comforting of thoughts, especially when accompanied by the ludicrous mental image of a somewhat foolish lamb attempting to tip-toe her way through a pack of curious wolves.

A brawny fellow with a shaven scalp brushed into her as he passed, his heavy arms loaded with coil upon coil of thick rope.

"Pard'n." he muttered, continuing on his way.

Alright, she amended, at the moment, a well fed, rather docile wolf pack. Oddly enough, a polite one at that. Miranda had no illusions about this. She had lived long enough to know that rank or title was of little or no protection in the world outside one's won cloistered walls. Certainly not for a woman, and most especially out here on the open waters, where ultimately the only law was the word of the Captain.

_The leader of this particular wolf pack, _she thought dryly.

As if this thought had conjured him, Jack Sparrow came into view, emerging from below to trot up the steps to the quarterdeck. There, he took the wheel from AnaMaria, glancing occasionally at the little box that usually hung from his belt.

His compass, Miranda reflected, remembering having opened it when she and Margret had searched through his possessions after the girl had discovered Warringford property in the pirate's pockets.

Peering down at the much larger ships compass, AnaMaria called out degree marks to the Captain. On the main deck, the crew scurried into action, manning the lines to pivot the great black sails, tacking into their altered course.

Miranda went forward, partly to keep out from underfoot, but also to remove herself from the possibility of being immediately spotted by the man at the helm. Resting her elbows on the bow railing, she stared over the side, feeling her insides squirm with embarrassment.

Honestly, she had no idea what had come over her at dinner the other night. What in the world had possessed her to say a thing like that? Oh, to be sure, she'd thought it -- the perfect squelch for that obnoxiously smug expression. And the man did so enjoy provoking her, it only seemed fair to want to return kind with kind.

But -- to speak such a suggestive thing aloud...

Miranda buried her face in her hands. "Stupid, stupid, _stupid_!"

At least he'd reacted with humor. She well remembered when something far more innocent said in jest before an audience had earned her a bruised jaw, and more.

Jack --_ Captain Sparrow,_ she reminded herself harshly -- it was becoming a struggle to think of him in that distanced manner, and even harder to want to keep up the pretense of doing so -- Captain Sparrow had only seemed delighted by her barb, taking it as an invitation to play. And his crew had warmed considerably ever since.

Still, Hannah would have fainted dead away to hear her mistress speak so. What the fussy matron would have done had she seen her charge dressed in mens clothing and climbing about in the ships rigging...

Miranda shuddered. What, she thought then, looking down at the ring adorning her left hand, would her mother have thought if she could see her child now? Her fingers found and released the hidden clasp. The blue gem beneath the gold dome glinted sullenly back at her.

"And what would Mama have made of this?" she said softly, studying the ancient heirloom. The tiny symbols seemed especially clear today, as enigmatic and incomprehensible as always, causing her to wonder -- for what seemed like the millionth time since learning of Edward Dunnthorpe's plot -- what possible use could a thing such as this be to anybody outside of the women of her own family.

She pressed the dome shut, then triggered it again. The _'click'_ and _'snap'_ of the catch a calming sound to her as she let her mind drift back to her childhood.  
  
_'Click'_.  
  
She remembered when she and her sisters would sit at Mama's knee. Three little girls listening raptly to the histories of the women whose hands had born this ornament. Queens, and nobles, and sacred women. All passing the ring to their own daughters. Elenore de' Aquitaine had worn this ring, she remembered. The story of that formidable Queen had made quite an impression upon the young Miranda. And Elenore had borne a number of daughters to her first husband before marrying King Henry the Second.  
  
_'Snap'_.  
  
She recalled in vague snatches the wild, improbable tales those three sisters had made up about this ring's origin, and about what meanings that strange combination of hand, clouds, and waves might hold. How their mother had smiled indulgently, and spurred them on to even greater flights of fancy by adding a few very odd suggestions to the story mix. Ever after that time, she could no longer look at this piece of jewelry without her mind conjuring images of ancient lands. Of marbled walls, azure waters, and dignified women who walked beside mighty beings -- gods, even -- whose names were barely remembered in this day.  
  
_'Click'_.  
  
How looking back now, Mama had not seemed as surprised by the discovery of the hidden stone, but more that it had been her middle daughter who had found it.

Why would that matter so? Why had it so seemed to unnerve her that Miranda had been the one to find the hidden catch -- and why was it that neither of her sisters had as well?

She remembered next, how long after that, after the hell of her marriage and divorce, Miranda had learned that this heirloom was to pass to herself -- not to her older sister. Elisse had not been happy about that. The ring had always passed to the firstborn daughter. It had since the beginning of...well, everything. But Mama had been most insistent in her will, and Papa had been unable to explain it.

Miranda frowned, rubbing at the ache developing between her eyes.

The pounding of booted feet startled her from her thoughts. She turned in time to see Captain Sparrow skid to a halt at the bulwark, then jump up to actually balance on the bow rail. One hand grabbing a fist full of lines, he leaned far over the side, searching intently at the horizon. His other hand held the small compass box.

"What happened here?" he barked, then glanced her way. "Did you see anything?"

Miranda shook her head. "No -- what's wrong?"

"I don't know. I was at the helm, when..." He broke off, transferring his gaze to the compass as she started towards him, then looked up again in bewilderment.

Straight at herself.

His expression unnerved her horribly. Miranda paused, reflexively snapping the ring cover back in place, hiding the stone. "What is it?" she repeated, voice shaking.

He didn't answer, but glanced down again, as if in doubt of what his eyes had seen. The pirate blinked hard then, and drew up tensely. He spun away from her, facing back along the larboard side.

"What did you do?" he asked urgently, and when she didn't respond, jumped down from the rail, and stalked toward her, holding out his compass before him. "What did you just do?"

He looked angry.

Miranda backed away. "Captain, you're frightening me!"

He stopped and drew a deep breath, letting it out slowly while he held up a hand in a manner meant to calm.

"Just a bit thrown off there myself, girl. Hold on." He took another steadying breath, and explained the reason for his sudden distress.

He had been using his own little compass to mark off the degrees for a minor course change, he told her, when all at once, the dial had spun to the bow. It had held there for a moment or so, then returned to where it had been.

Then it had happened again. And again.

Miranda felt a sudden chill.

"So you can see why I came flying up here," Captain Sparrow went on, "But that's when my trusty friend here got all confused."

He raised a finger. "Pointed straight to you, darlin'. Then something happened, and it went back to behaving itself. Now," he cocked his head expectantly, "Anything you want to tell me about?"

Miranda was beginning to suspect that there was. She approached him cautiously, eying the small lacquered box. He held the compass out to her, inviting her to look. 

"But...but that's not north." she said with a frown. "North is," she turned and pointed, "That way. This is showing --"

"Someplace else." Sparrow finished evasively, "I know. This compass has always pointed to...someplace else." His dark lined eyes lifted to hers with that intensity that seemed to reach right into her mind.

"Until today. Until just now."

She felt that cold sensation again. Lifting her hands as far from that compass as she could, she stared hard at the brass dial, and triggered her ring's clasp.

His hand jerked. Sparrow bit out a curse as the dial rotated, the arrow on the compass rose that should have indicated north instead aimed straight to her hands.

Miranda heard herself gasp. She snapped the dome closed, unable to look away as the arrow lazily drifted back.

"What does this mean?" It was difficult to keep her voice level. "Captain?"

The pirate appeared lost in thought. A deep furrow showed between his brows as he slowly lowered the boxs' rounded lid.

"Come on." he said at last, taking her arm and pulling her along.

She went, mind racing as she followed him aft. Even knowing only the most basic principals of magnetism, she was certain that there was no logical explanation for what she'd just witnessed. More disturbing still was the realization that this strange phenomenon had first been noted from across the entire length of this ship, with what had to be tons of iron here and there between her ring and that little mechanism in his hand. Something was very wrong here.

_And you know what it is, Captain Jack Sparrow_, she thought, daring a glance at his serious profile.

He lead her up to the quarterdeck, where she met AnaMaria's quizzical look with a helpless shake of her head.

"Jack?" Mr. Gibbs, sensing something was amiss, had followed them up the steps.

Sparrow held up his hand, then lead Miranda to the binnacle, which held the large compass near the helm. AnaMaria slipped a pair of looped ropes over the spokes, locking the wheel in place, and moved to join the Captain when he motioned her over.

"Milady, if you'd be so kind." he asked then, gesturing to the binnacle.

Understanding his intent, if not his reason, Miranda loosened the gold cap, then waved her hand slowly back and forth before the dial.

Not a twitch. This compass steadfastly pointed the true way north, and would not be budged.

"What are we lookin' at?" Gibbs wanted to know.

"I'll have to get back to you on that, mate." was the subdued response. Then, the Captain lifted the lid of his own compass. He let out a hiss at what he saw there.

His two officers crowded in, peering over his shoulder.

"I still don't know what yer lookin' for, Jack." Gibbs was beginning to sound impatient.

"Oh, you will, mate." Sparrow said, then looked up. "Would you mind walking a circle around us, Lady?"

Miranda didn't need to see his compass to know what was happening. Mr. Gibbs' startled exclamation as she moved around the three was telling enough.

"Never happened before?" she heard AnaMaria ask, and saw the Captain shake his head.

"I think that's enough." he said, closing the lid again.

Miranda waited for an explanation. Somehow, she didn't honestly think she would get one just yet.

"What does this mean?" Gibbs demanded, unconsciously echoing her own quarry from minutes ago.

"It means," Sparrow began, pausing to loop the black leather thong to his belt, securing the compass to his side, "That things just got a bit more complicated."

Miranda felt a hot surge of frustration. She would surely scream if a better answer than this was not forthcoming.

But just as she was about to voice this aloud, a great gust of wind blasted over their stern, and they all looked up, startled.

The ship gave a shudder, surging forward at an oblique in the driving force, and the sails boomed as they bellied out to their limits.

Just as suddenly the blast faded away, but Miranda was shaken. It was as if some huge, winged creature had just torn past them at unimaginable speeds.

"That's interesting." Sparrow remarked in hushed tones. He stepped closer to her, his eyes still fixed on the masts.

Then it happened again -- only this time the blast came from the bow, and infinitely more powerful. It roared into them, and Miranda knew that she would have been thrown to the deck had Captain Sparrow not seized her by the shoulders.

Impossibly, this wind increased! In the middle of a clear, pleasant day, the **_Black Pearl_** foundered as if storm-swept. Her sails fluttered helplessly into the masts, then tried to fill as they were blown aback. The hull pitched and rolled precariously, and the air was filled with the shrieking of the wind through sheet and shroud.

Terrified, Miranda clapped her hands over her ears and tried to shield herself in the pirate's shoulder.

Then the grip on her arms tightened painfully. She heard Sparrow bellow her name, barely audible above the vast sound, and looked up.

His eyes -- they were frightened! The were focused on a point just beside her, it seemed.

"Close it!" he shouted over the howling rush, "Close it, Miranda!"

Mama's ring...was this what he meant? But what could that have to do with --

In the act of doing what he'd bidden, Miranda froze and fought back a scream.

The stone was glowing. A dull, gray light that hovered around her hand, glaring with resentment at the stronger light of the sun. The sight stunned her into immobility, watching as the glow steadily brightened, coalesced into an angry ball above her shaking fingers. She could only stare as the light stretched itself into a narrow column that aimed -- not upward, but to somewhere beyond her.

"_Close it!_" Sparrow shouted again, and his voice broke the momentary paralysis. She slapped her hand over the stone, feeling rather than hearing the _'snap'_ that closed that horrid light into the golden barrier.

Miranda clutched at Sparrow's coat, and his hand pressed to the back of her head, pushing her down into his shoulder as he turned his body to shield her further. They staggered at the buffeting, punishing blasts, swayed horribly with the tossing of the deck beneath their feet, and the shrieking of the air was joined by the low groaning of timbers straining beyond their strength, and the wind went on, and on --

--And ended. As abruptly as the blowing out of a candle, this attack -- for Miranda couldn't help but think of it as anything but -- also died away.

The keel leveled, and gradually, the mad pitching of the deck subsided. But the sails fluttered uselessly from the yards. The **_Black Pearl_** had been blown off course and into the wind, effectively going nowhere. Save for this, one could almost believe that the remarkable event had never occurred.

Except for the frightened curses and shouted inquiries of the crew.

"Jesus, Mary, and Joseph..." she heard Mr. Gibbs breath reverently, while the men picked themselves up and moved to secure the ship, and to reassure each other.

"We're in the wind!" AnaMaria snapped, and Sparrow released Miranda, whirling to face the helm.

AnaMaria was already there, struggling to turn the great wheel. The Captain grabbed the other side, and together they worked to bring the ship back onto her first heading, while the Quartermaster went down to help the men. Soon enough the sails filled, and they were under way once more.

Miranda was aware of all of this, but in an uncomfortably abstracted way. Heart pounding, she stared at the ancient heirloom resting quietly on her hand, and felt her skin crawl. As if she'd discovered a venomous snake coiled there instead.

From a distance, she heard Sparrow call out for a report. It must have been favorable, for the next thing she heard was his order for someone to relieve the First Mate at the helm.

"We'll take this below," he said to the girl, while Joshamee Gibbs pounded back up the steps, calling that all was in order.

Miranda looked up. All three were staring at her. Two of them wearing similar expressions of curiosity and apprehension.

The pirate Captain was unreadable. His eyes burned into hers with an intent that she, in her present state, could not name.

"Go on, you two." Sparrow urged. "Get below -- and bring our Bo'sun, too." he added, still holding Miranda's eyes. His officers departed, moving down to the main deck.

Miranda's head was spinning. Perversely, in the relative quiet, she felt more frightened now than in the midst of that terrible attack. And when the Captain took a step towards her, she drew back, flinching away and unable to disguise it.

He halted, and cautiously held out his hand.

"Milady?" he began in low, kindly tones that restored some of her calm, "We should get below. We need to talk about this."

"What was that?" Miranda couldn't keep the terror from her voice, and forgot herself completely in that moment. "I don't understand -- how could my ring have done anything like...Jack --" she reached out to him, "Jack, what's happening?"

He closed the distance between them, and took her hand in both of his. "I don't understand either...do you believe me, Miranda?"

There was no way to mistake the relief on his face for anything but genuine when she whispered that she did. He squeezed her hand.

"Good. Let me keep that trust, my lady. I don't know what this is about, but I need you to help me sort it out. "Are you with me?"

A nervous, hysterical giggle choked its way out. "Do I have any other choice?" she asked bitterly, and for a moment, Sparrow looked truly hurt.

"No! Oh, no -- I didn't mean that! I'm sorry, I am so sorry...I'm just --"

"Frightened beyond reason?" he interjected. "I know."

He grinned then. That wild, wicked grin. "Care to do something about it?

"Come on, luv. Are you with me?"

She nodded slowly. "Yes...yes, I'm with you."

"There's a lass."

.

.

**_A/N:_**Please R&R...you don't want me to get pouty, do you? See you soon! 


	17. Chapter15

Another chapter for your reading torment, gentle readers. My, how far we've come. And to think -- I've barely gotten started!

Michiru, you're starting to frighten me. Thankfully, I know where both the dried peas, AND the soap are hidden. And about that "well hung" thing...well, let's just say that it goes well with "Outlaw Jack's Bonny Ass. (don't ask, folks, don't ask. you'll sleep better.), and that it DOES NOT go well with tearful pastries. Poor darlings, they need cheering so badly.

I think I can say beyond a shadow of a doubt that Miranda's cleavage is NOT airbrushed in. She'd probably like it a bit better if it were, but...ah well.

Somehow, I don't think that iceburgs are going to be an issue in these waters...provided that they stay in these waters, of course.

As to the importance of that ring -- well, you'll just have to wait and see. >:D

LOL! Saxony, you crack me up! Ravage him indeed...poor Miranda! What's a proper English Lady to do when she's being egged on to act like this?

ShimmeringTears, as someone who is fueled by the power of caffine, don't worry about the hyperness! LOL!

Redbud-Tree -- Thanks for that! Soo happy to know that Miranda's caught on with people. And that weather was fairly scary...

LadySnape7: Squeeee! A new reader! (waves like an idiot) Glad you enjoyed the dried peas...a popular concensus around the reading audiance. Had I but known...

Hope this continues to catch your interest, and thank you for those kind words!

DemonicPelicans (one day I'll be able to type that with a straight face), yes, the supernatural has just officially entered the picture. It's a whole new ballgame from here. Hope this chapter comes soon enough for you!

A big thank you again to all my wonderful readers/reviewers! I hope I can continue to entertain!

And now may I present you with...  
  
**

Chapter 15

**  
  
It was something of a relief to be below. She knew it was a foolish thought, but Miranda was grateful to be surrounded by the confines of the 'Great Cabin'. To be sheltered from the open skies. The feeling was foreign to her. Usually she couldn't wait to be on deck when at sea. But after what she'd just witnessed...

Miranda shuddered, and met the four pairs of eyes that were trained on her. She hadn't paid much attention when Captain Sparrow had been in quiet conference with his Boatswain, being mainly distracted by Gibbs' muttered undertones to the First Mate.

"Unnatural." he'd said gruffly, "Nothin' natural at all about how those winds come up on us.

"An' did you see that thing? Glowin' off her hand like that?"

"I saw it." AnaMaria responded very quietly. "We all saw it, Joshamee." Then she added in even lower tones, "She's already stretched tighter than a drum head. Don't make it worse."

Gibbs had sputtered unhappily at that, but let it go.

Now, they all looked to Miranda, expecting answers that she simply didn't have. Slowly, she slipped the ring from her finger, then placed it at the center of the large, dark table.

Sparrow gestured for her to sit, and they all lowered themselves into chairs. All save the Boatswain -- or Bo'sun -- a bald, bearded fellow named Marty, who was shorter than even herself by nearly a head. He used his own chair as a step ladder, climbing up to seat himself on the edge of the table.

The Captain steepled his fingers, staring as the others were, at the innocuous little ornament. "Marty tells me we've come through this undamaged." he said finally, and the Bo'sun straightened.

"A few bumps and bruises to the men," the little man said from his perch, "But the ship's held. No damage that I can find. "She's a fine old girl," he added fondly, patting his hand on the sturdy table top, " Takes what's thrown at her and laughs it off."

The Captain gave a feral smile. "That she does. Mr. Gibbs, any other ships sighted in the area?"

"Not a one. Not since that one you spotted off our stern the other day." The older man squinted at Sparrow. "You expectin' trouble, Jack?"

Sparrow looked again at the bit of gold. "Let's just say that I'd like to be prepared for any contingency."

"That would be a 'yes', then." Gibbs muttered half to himself, then went on louder, "We'll be sighting land soon. Still putting in at Cuba?"

"Oh, yes." the Captain affirmed. "We'll lay up our store, let our cooper get his supplies, and give the men a chance to stretch their legs." Then he reached out and took up the ring, turning it over and over in his fingers.

"And I want to know what these markings are all about. Why my compass is reacting to this little fancy, and what happened after."

Miranda started to form a denial, to protest her ignorance, but Gibbs spoke first.

"Inn'it plain, Jack?" he demanded, sounding nervous, "For the same reason that box o' yourn points to the Isla de Muerta, that's why."

Miranda started. An 'island of death'? Was this the 'someplace else' that Sparrow had so evasively referred to? But Gibbs wasn't finished.

"An' you know better n' the rest of us what was waitin' in that cursed place."

"Wealth beyond reckoning?" Sparrow asked innocently, but there was a kind of ironic amusement on his face.

**_'Slam!_**' Gibbs brought the palm of his hand down hard on the wooden surface, and Miranda flinched.

"Dammit, Jack!" the Quartermaster thundered, "This ain't no laughin' matter. What good's all the gold in the world if you're stuck in a livin' death -- or if your ship's torn apart under your feet?"

"We were hardly torn apart just now." his Captain pointed out. "And as to the other..." He studied the gold in his fingers. "Not all that bad, really. Although, it did tend to make a body somewhat conspicuous during those moonlit strolls."

Gibbs roared again and AnaMaria jumped to her feet, chair scraping loudly across the deck. She stretched her arms out between the two men.

"That's enough, Joshamee. This is getting us nowhere. And you --" She wheeled, shaking her finger in Sparrow's face. "Stop baiting the man. You're worse than a child."

Miranda stared back and forth between them. Islands of death -- cursed treasures... What in the world was going on here? If she'd thought to gain any answers herself from this meeting, she was already sorely disappointed. While she still trembled with dread at what had happened above, the clinical, logical part of her brain screamed out for useful information, and these men were arguing about children's stories. Fairy tales.

Fairy tales...

Over the bickering of the pirates, another voice came to her. Warm and familiar, speaking calmly to three wide eyed little girls in the middle of one of their whimsical afternoons of make-believe.

"The finger of the god," Mama had told them, lifting her hand and pointing to her ring, "It holds the finger of the god, which points the way to the golden walls of the temple of the sun. But you must take care with it, lest you wake the sleeper. His wrath flies on the wings of the tempest."

Then she'd laughed aloud at the tremors of excitement that shook her three girls.

It wasn't excitement that make Miranda shake now.

"The finger of the god," she said softly, "To the golden walls of the temple of the sun."

"What's that?"

"I'm sorry?" She shook herself and looked up. Much to her discomfort, Miranda realized that she now had the undivided attention of all four pirates.

"You said something just then." Captain Sparrow informed her. "About a sun temple. What did you mean?"

She stared at him. "But -- it's nothing. Just a story from --"

"What was it?" he insisted.

Haltingly, she spoke the fragment of memory. Then again at Sparrow's request.

"The 'finger of the god', eh?" He held the ring closer, apparently searching for the tiny clasp.

"But surely you can't believe that -- it was just a story, just..." she faltered, searching for words. "Just...children's make-believe on a rainy afternoon." Miranda looked to each of them in turn, seeing only serious faces staring back.

"It's not real." But she wasn't quite as sure of that any more. "Is it?"

Sparrow's brow furrowed. He looked uncomfortable, as though he wanted to speak, but wasn't certain of what to tell her.

"What if it is?" the Bo'sun asked suddenly, "As real as an Aztec curse turning men into living skeletons."

"Aye," Gibbs added while AnaMaria nodded her head, "And the**_ Black Pearl_** into a ghost ship." Miranda shuddered, remembering now the wild reports of the attack on Port Royal, the kidnapping and rescue of Elizabeth Swann -- now Turner --and later, the gossip attributed to the crew of the HMS **_Dauntless_**. She'd always believed these to be the drunken ramblings of soldiers augmented by those seeking to impress a gullible audience.

"Captain," she implored helplessly, hoping to hear him refute these impossible claims. To restore some sense of reason to this discussion, or at the very least, laugh and prove this to be a cruel joke.

His face was as somber as she'd ever seen it. Her heart sank.

"Captain...please."

"It's true." he said in a subdued way that made her feel even worse. "The curse, Barbossa's crew -- all of it. "They can tell you." He nodded at his crew. "They saw more than most."

"Aye, and more than I ever want to see again." Gibbs said fervently, and the room fell tensely quiet again.

"So, what now?" AnaMaria, having returned to her seat, broke the silence. The Captain only continued his study of the ring.

"It 'points the way to the golden walls...You two saw that light," he turned to the pair who'd stood with him on the quarterdeck, "Did it aim in any particular direction?"

"East." AnaMaria said without hesitation, "Due east."

"Towards sunrise," Sparrow nodded his head. "Makes sense."

"Yer not plannin' on chasin' after this, are you?" Gibbs was unhappy. "With what we just seen happen? Jack -- you could be walkin' us into somethin' even worse than that Aztec spell."

"Why?" Sparrow countered, pointing to Miranda, "Have any of you seen her looking particularly bony in the moonlight?"

Miranda blinked at this, but Gibbs wasn't mollified.

"That might not mean nothin'."

"Then let's find out now. Lady Warringford," he began rather officiously, "You told me this ring's been in your mother's line for generations. In all that time, any accounts of strange happenings -- unexplained events?"

Miranda frowned. "Captain Sparrow, you can hardly expect me to be able to pluck thousands of years of my family's history out of my head at a moments notice."

"_Thousands_ of years?" he began with some surprise, but then shook his head. "Fair enough, then how about a little more recent.

"To your knowledge," he prefaced, "Any heredity bouts of madness? Litanies of lives ending in destitution and death at tragically young ages?"

She shook her head. "Actually, rather the opposite." The thought struck an odd chord in her, but Jack..._Captain Sparrow_ -- went on before she could pursue it.

"Extra fingers or toes," he continued with a devilish light in his eyes now, "Sprouting a tail and fangs? Howling at the sky at each full moon?"

"Don't be absurd."

"There, you see?" Sparrow said to his people as if this had settled the matter, "No ill effects on her."

None of the others seemed particularly reassured by this, including Miranda, whose stomach dropped farther when he started feeling for the tiny clasp, obviously intent on triggering it.

"How does this work again?"

"The catch is at the top," she began uncertainly, "But are you sure you should..."

Sparrow interrupted her with a shake of his head. "I can't see it." he admitted. "Show me."

Miranda rose and went to him. "It's here," she said, pointing, "See? No, you're too far over. Right here."

Another negative shake. "Nothing, darlin'. I can't see anything there."

AnaMaria thrust out her hand, waving her fingers impatiently. Sparrow passed the gold her way, but after a few minutes, she too had to admit that she saw nothing. The Bo'sun and Quartermaster fared no better, though Mr. Gibbs was loath to even touch the ornament at first. He was duly persuaded to try his hand, only to be as baffled as the rest.

"I don't see how that's possible." Miranda told them, taking back her ring and staring thoughtfully at it. She didn't quite feel up to putting it on her finger yet.

"Could be you're the only one meant to see it." the Captain suggested in an offhand manner. Then, his next words chilled her.

"Open it."

"Captain!" she exclaimed, and at the same time, Gibbs jumped to his feet.

"Jack, are you daft? You want that...that...whatever it was to happen again?"

Sparrow grinned tightly, but there was no humor in his dark eyes. He leaned forward, resting his elbows on the table, clasping his hands before him. "Trust me," he said in a soft, dangerous voice, "I'm having a thought, here."

Gibbs looked pained by this. AnaMaria tensed in her chair, while Marty's only outward reaction was to grip the edge of the table a bit tighter.

Miranda's hands shook badly. It took her several tries to reach the clasp, but finally, the dome sprang up. She held her breath, waiting for the first sign of that angry gray light. Listening for the rush of wind, and the labored groans of overtaxed masts. The pirates waited with her. Three more wary sets of eyes staring fixedly upward as they strained to hear the first expected gusts.

In contrast, Captain Sparrow sat with his chin resting on his folded hands, kohl-rimmed eyes never leaving her face, she noted, and that smile still bending his lips.

"Breathe, Lady." he advised, brows lifting, and Miranda realized that her lungs were aching for air. He stood and came to her side, head cocked in an attitude of listening. He looked from herself to her ring, then nodded gravely.

"Thought so." This was said with a hint of smugness, "Not quite as effective out of the elements, is it?"

"Which element," Miranda countered, "How are we to know?"

"Good point." Taking her elbow, he steered her into a patch of sunlight let in by the transom windows.

"I think it's safe to say that wasn't it." he noted dryly when again, nothing happened. "So that only leaves this..." Cupping his hands around her own, he bent closer and blew gently over the surface of the stone. Miranda shivered, gooseflesh raising all up her arms. She drew in a sharp breath then, as a faint gray haze shimmered in the dull blue gem. An tiny tendril of light reached out, flared once, and vanished.

"Jack..?" she heard herself quaver. He snapped the dome in place, then met her anxious look.

"That answers it."

So it was the wind that caused that eerie glow. But what of that terrifying and ( as Mr. Gibbs had so succinctly termed it ) unnatural weather? Had her ring merely reacted, or had it in some way been the actual cause?

Questions. Always more questions.

"I don't have the answers, luv. But I'm thinking that you very well might. Now hold on a moment," Captain Sparrow held up his hand before she could speak, "Don't fly all over me yet, hear me out first. These stories of yours -- there may be more useful tidbits hidden in them than you realize."

"Captain Sparrow, are you asking me to recall things said in passing more than half a lifetime ago? " Miranda spread her hands helplessly. "I was a child -- hardly more than a little girl."

"Do you have anything else to go on?" he returned, one eyebrow arching, "Because it seems to me that your little recollection earlier was a fair description of what we saw above."

"I suppose it could be seen that way, but..."

The Captain waved her silent again, moving away from her to lean against the table top, arms folded as he studied her. "The 'finger of the god' certainly looked to to me to be pointing towards sunrise, luv. I'm thinking you'll not find a plainer hint than that. But what about this 'sleeper', eh? Whose 'wrath flies on the wings of the tempest'? With the way we were blown about up there, I'm finding myself a bit more concerned with finding out about that one...and so should you. Because if those winds were any indication, I'd have to hazard a guess that this 'sleeper' of yours is very much awake."

He nodded his head emphatically at the tremor that shook her yet again. "You see my point. Whatever has the power to do that is the real danger, savvy?"

She swallowed hard, nodding in agreement. "I'll try," she promised, and looked to each somber face, "I'll try to remember all I can."

"Can't ask for more than that." Sparrow conceded, and his people murmured in agreement.

But hours later in the tiny cabin that she shared with the First Mate, Miranda found that the memories, the answers, were as elusive now as before.

He had sent her from him, asking that she return to take dinner with him in the Great Cabin.

"In the meantime, try to think of anything that might tell us more," he'd said seriously, "No matter how -- inconsequential? You never know." Then he'd turned from her, moving to confer with his crew. She'd left the Great Cabin, but lingered for a time outside the heavy doors. To her great dismay, the voices then heard from the other side were unmistakably raised in argument.

Miranda had gone to AnaMaria's cabin, and spent the remainder of the long afternoon wracking her brain for information that simply refused to come. Perhaps the dissension between Captain Sparrow and his men had unnerved her too much to concentrate, but when she inquired later of AnaMaria, the girl had merely shaken her head.

"Joshamee's just being an old nanny goat." she said with a disgusted sneer, and wouldn't tell her anything more, leading her instead back to her promised dinner engagement with the Captain. To her surprise, the First Mate remained with them.

"Figured of all the people on board this ship, we two would be the ones you're most at ease with." Sparrow pointed out, and Miranda felt a rush of gratitude for his consideration.

It was all too easy to read their disappointment, though, when she had to admit that she had nothing new to report.

"We've still plenty of time before we make landfall," the Captain told her, tucking into his meal, "Whatever hits you, just tell me."

Miranda chewed at a bite of seasoned pork that was perhaps just a trifle overdone, then returned her fork to the table.

"Captain Sparrow, if I've been the cause of any problems between you and your crew, perhaps it would be best if this course wasn't pursued."

He only smiled wolfishly. "Listening in, were we, luv?"

She nodded, flushing guiltily. "But I honestly couldn't hear what was said."

"Ah...well then, let me set your mind at ease, Milady. This isn't a Merchantman, or a Navy vessel -- every man aboard has a say here, and Joshamee's just voicing what he's sure the men will be asking." He grinned at AnaMaria. "Wouldn't dare try to speak for you, darlin'. Even I'm not brave enough for that."

The First Mate snorted and gave him a dismissive wave.

"Mr. Gibbs wouldn't be earning his coin if he didn't question me now and again." the pirate Captain continued, "And admittedly, at times I'm not exactly what you'd call forthcoming with what I have in my head."

"Not the way I would have said it." AnaMaria said with another snort. "Close-mouthed as a bloody clam, you are. Right up to the point when you want to pull something that scares the rest of us into fits."

"Ah, but_ you_ were the one who claimed to be as crazy as me when you signed on, remember?" he teased, and the girl lobbed a chunk of her biscuit at him.

"Don't worry about Joshamee, Lady, "AnaMaria told her, frowning when the Captain managed to dodge her volley, "He carries on like an old woman, but he won't try to mutiny the crew, if that's what's got you tied up."

"No. He won't." Sparrow agreed quietly.

Miranda caught a flicker of -- something cross the man's even features. An old pain that he quickly disguised. All at once she remembered the tales that surrounded this pirate's exploits. How his former crew had mutinied, had marooned him to die alone. But he had lived, had escaped his island prison to retake his ship -- this very ship -- and saw those that had turned on him lead away in chains.

"_Ten years of my life I spent trying to get my ship back from that man._" he had told her that first night aboard, speaking of the late, unlamented Captain Barbossa.

Indeed, Sparrow _had_ won.

"This is good." AnaMaria observed, topping off her sturdy mug with more wine from the simple decanter, "What did you call this stuff again?"

"Sangria." the Captain replied absently, taking the decanter from her to add more to his own.

Sangria...blood, Miranda thought, automatically making the translation. Though a fitting description for the deep red of the wine, she'd always found the name somewhat disquieting.

Although, she reflected after another sip, her cabinmate was right. This was a good wine. Probably best to not dwell to hard on how it might have come to be aboard this ship.

"Think I definitely came out on the better end of this barter." said the Captain, with an appraising look at the decanter. "Six casks of this for two of our water barrels?"

"They needed the water," AnaMaria shrugged, "And our stores were still full. At least one ship out there isn't cursing our name."

"True...doesn't seem right somehow, does it? The _**Black Pearl**_ engaging in honest trade?" He flashed those gold teeth again, a bit sheepishly this time, and AnaMaria stifled a laugh.

Miranda felt a true fondness for the man in that moment. Once again, he was behaving in quite the opposite way to anything she'd ever expected, and the relaxed banter between himself and the First Mate made her want to join in.

"Altruism, sir?" she asked with raised brows, "What is the world coming to when even the most notorious of scoundrels plays the role of a gentleman?"

The Captain's smile grew. "Most notorious, eh?" He ran his finger over his mustache in that preening gesture of his. "Well, go on, luv -- you can't just leave it there."

"Jack..." AnaMaria rolled her eyes, and her voice was a long suffering sigh.

Miranda hid her amusement behind the mug that she raised to her lips.

"More?" Sparrow asked, picking up the wine, and she held her mug out to him. He misjudged the distance between them and drops of blood-red liquid splashed onto the table.

"Whoops...I'm afraid you'll have to lean in a bit, luv." Miranda didn't answer him. Her eyes were fixed to the puddle of spilled wine.

Blood...blood falling from the sky. The water boiling red where the drops fell, and the land shaking violently, cringing away.

People screaming.

People...dying -- and the skies above roiling black with angry clouds, and the air alive with the howling of the vast winds.

"You have not won!" cried the voice of the storms, "You will be supplanted -- overthrown!"

"Perhaps," came another vast shout, "It may be even as you say -- but you will not see it come to pass. Bind him. Bind him in chains of slumber. Let none wake him, but let him remain until the end of all things."

And the mighty winds died, taking with them a howl of inhuman anguish that faded into silence.

"Milady?"

Miranda started in her chair, and glanced about quickly. "I'm sorry?"

Captain Sparrow regarded her with narrowed eyes. "Where were you just then, Lady?"

She blinked at the man, then saw that AnaMaria was also watching her, curiosity and worry equally evident on her dark face.

"Where was -- it was a dream...a dream I had many years ago." She clasped her hands together to stop their trembling, the images all too clear in her mind. "I think it was after one of our story afternoons, but this one...

"This one frightened me horribly. Mother had to come to the nursery herself to calm me afterword. There was..." Miranda closed her eyes, fighting to find the words to describe what she'd seen. "There was blood...raining from the sky. A great being was punished for his deeds, and the earth was shaking..." She went on, relating all that she had seen. Even to the ominous words that had accompanied the vision.

The two listened in silence, not even glancing at each other. Giving her their full attention. Sparrow leaned back in his seat, tugging thoughtfully at his chin braids when she'd finished. His eyes were distant, focused on some point only he could see.

"Captain," Miranda began shakily, "Perhaps it would be best to not pursue this. Perhaps...perhaps the ring should be thrown into the sea where no one can be harmed."

"She could be right, you know." AnaMaria looked no less unnerved than she herself must have. The First Mate leaned her body towards the Captain, her great almond eyes fixed on his face. "Might be better to just get rid of it. No one'll need to know it exists."

Sparrow raised his eyes to her, then to Miranda. "Dunnthorpe knows it exists." he reminded, "His partner knows it exists. You could rid yourself of it, yes, but will that stop them from taking it out on you for spoiling their plans? I wouldn't want to be throwing away my best bargaining tool, were I in your shoes, Lady. While you hold it, you have all the leverage.

"And there's still the matter of this 'sleeper', of course."

"The one who was supposed to stay that way until the 'end of all things', you mean?" Miranda struggled to not sound shrill, "For all I know, _I_ might have been the one to wake him, Captain! Or perhaps if he woke on his own, then this truly could be...be --"

"Armageddon?" he interjected calmly, "Ragnerok, Land's End? It could be. Or," he held up a finger, pointing to her, "It may not. And have you thought that maybe that little bauble of yours could be something to defend against our not-so-sleepy friend?"

The idea took her aback. In all honesty, that possibility had not occurred to her. The Captain inclined his head when she admitted this.

"There you are. All the more reason to keep our wits and not do anything stupid until we've had a chance to learn more."

Of course, he was right. Some time later, sitting up in her small bed, Miranda held the ring in her hand, and reflected that Captain Sparrow's prudence did indeed seem the best course of action. The realization didn't make her feel any less frightened. She still could not bear to return the ring to her finger. This day had forever changed her perception of it.

No longer a connection to her mother, to her history, it was now something to be dreaded.

After another moments consideration, she placed the heirloom carefully into a compartment of her medicine case, and leaned back onto the old, worn mattress.

Across the cabin, AnaMaria shifted in her sleep. Miranda looked to the girl, and felt bone-weary. She knew that she should shutter the lantern beside her bed, darken the room a bit, but right now the flickering light was a comforting thing. Miranda settled into her pillows, and willed calm to her still racing mind.

Puzzles within puzzles, she thought drowsily just before sleep claimed her, but too many pieces were missing.

She dreamed again that night. Dreams filled with eyes that seemed to dissect her down to her very foundations. These were not the cold blue of Edward Dunnthorpe, nor the smoldering, burnished mahogany of her most unlikely of saviors, but rather the seething, roiling gray of a thunderstorm. Those strange eyes fixed on her, pinned her, and in her dreams, Miranda was paralyzed as those eyes drew nearer and nearer, and a voice roared out, vast as the noise of a gale, and she couldn't move, even to shrink back from the hands that reached for her.

But no -- only one hand could clearly be seen. Where the other should have been, there was only emptiness. An emptiness filled with the same angry gray light that had glowed from her own hand today. The light closed in on her, enraged, and radiating a kind of ravenous frustration that sent her bolt upright with a stifled outcry, frantically casting her eyes about the darkened room.

"Lady?" AnaMaria turned in her bed, making ready to rise.

"It's nothing, dear," Miranda managed in a steadier tone than she would have thought possible, "Go back to sleep."

She envied the girl. In a remarkable short time, AnaMaria's breathing had deepened into slumber again. But Miranda heard the ship's bell change the watches several times before she was able to rest again. 


	18. Chapter16

Hello again. Time for another forey into my twisted little brain!

Woo-HOOO! I see I've picked up a new pair of readers. Welcome!

Anaknusan, I'm happy to see you're enjoying my offering. Thank you for those kind words!

Eccentric Banshee (love that name!), I present you with a virtual Dustbuster for you popcorn! lol! Thank you for that review! I love the extensive ones...let's me know what I'm doing, right or wrong. And helps to keep me on my toes.

Whoops! out of room on this page! Please R&R!!! See you next week!  
  
**

Chapter 16

**  
  
Puzzles within puzzles.

Seated comfortable in the parlor of Warringford Manor, enjoying a well brewed cup of tea, Lieutenant Nilsen sipped carefully, and chose his words with equal prudence.

"As we've had no sign of mischief these past days," he began, meeting the anxious eyes of his audience, "I'm confident that there will be no more attacks against this estate.The staff of Warringford Manor, gave murmurs of relief at this.

"And how are your people, sir?" Margret Radburn asked with polite concern. "Your man Norris, he is healing well, I trust?"

"Quite. And our physician was highly impressed by the way his wound was dealt with, I might add." He took another sip, noting the modest way in which this woman received his praise.

"Have you been able to learn anything from searching those bodies?" her husband wanted to know.

"Nothing of importance, I'm afraid." Nilsen frowned into his cup. Examining the corpses of the eight men who had so unsuccessfully moved against this estate had proven to be an exercise in frustration. No clear answers as to who these men were, or what their goal had been.

"Although," he went on in response to Radburn's query, "Several of them wore tattoos that marked them as having affiliations with known criminal groups in the Mediterranean waters. An awfully long way from home." Under the cover of finishing his tea, Nilsen studied the assembled faces, gauging their reactions to this scrap of information.

Mrs. Radburn leaned closer to her husband, the pair wearing identical expressions of worry, while two of the younger maids fluttered nervously around the matron, Hannah. The rest of the men and women assembled here were similarly affected.

However, none of them voiced the question Nilsen expected to hear: 'What could these people have wanted here?'

"So what will you do now, sir?" Bill Radburn asked instead.

Placing the fine cup and saucer on the serving tray, Nilsen laced his fingers together, and regarded the fellow appraisingly.

"Well, as I don't believe we'll be seeing any more incidents like this, it won't be necessary to leave my men about to get underfoot." He smiled wryly and added, "Or to further deplete your mistress' larder."

Then, without changing his affable expression, "And where is the Countess now?"

His calmly voiced question landed like a rock thrown into a pool. Uneasiness rippled across every face, though they tried very hard to control themselves.

"We told you before," Margret said, but she had paled noticeably. "Lady Warringford decided to accompany her friend on his voyage to China."

"Yes, I remember." Nilsen told her gently. "But the odd thing is that while the dock masters at Falmouth recalled the Oriental gentleman boarding, nobody can say the same of every having seen the Countess there, or at Port Maria. And stranger still, I've received word that she was sighted in the company of an unknown gentleman in Port Royal two days after she supposedly left the island."

Silence, guilty and strained, greeted this revelation. Nilsen straightened in his seat, his demeanor turning stern.

"Three of my men died defending this place." he reminded grimly, and saw that Hannah's chin began to tremble. "I would like to know why."

When he departed some time later, it was with a mind racing from the implications of the knowledge he'd just received, and a bemused smile frozen to his lips.

So -- Jack Sparrow _was_ involved in this after all. Only what the pirate had involved himself in, Nilsen couldn't begin to guess. The reasons behind Sparrow's arrival at this estate were thoroughly plausible. Nilsen didn't doubt the recollections of the Countess' servants in the slightest, as this was in fact the only logical explanation for the way in which the pirate and his men -- and a woman, as well -- had vanished from Port Hamilton. But the story of what had subsequently occurred -- what the Countess' people had stumbled over themselves to tell him -- would have had him scoffing, chastising them for wasting his time, had he not already know of that branded reprobate's penchant for working his way into...unusual situations.

The Lieutenant mounted his horse, the four men he'd left stationed to guard Warringford Manor also taking to their saddles and falling in behind him. The muted dronings of their quiet conversations provided a backdrop for his troubled thoughts as they made their way unhurriedly down the road to Montego Bay in the warm afternoon sun.

Only another hour or so, and the little troop would be reporting back to Port Hamilton, where Nilsen would be expected to give a full account of the current status of his investigation. It was not something that he looked forward to with any great enthusiasm. Not when his report would have to include the probable involvement of Lord Dunnthorpe -- a personal acquaintance of his commanding officer.

But even Captain Gillette would be forced to admit that the nobleman's behavior was decidedly suspect. His Lordship's vessel had departed the very day Nilsen had seen him here demanding the whereabouts of the Countess.

If Lady Warringford's servants could be believed, it was Dunnthorpe himself who had orchestrated the attack on the Lady's home. And attack that was supposed to have culminated in the deaths of the Lady and her staff, and the blame placed squarely upon Sparrow and his band. A plot uncovered by Sparrow, revealed to the Countess, who (to the continued tearful chagrin of the matron, Hannah) chose to flee in the company of this known criminal.

For her sake, Nilsen could only hope that the pirate was displaying a truthfulness nearly unheard of in those of his ilk. The subsequent lack of any kind of ransom demand would appear to back this up, but Nilsen knew from experience just how cunning Sparrow could be.

"That's got to be the best pirate I've ever seen", he'd said the day that Sparrow and the blacksmith Turner had literally pinched the **_Interceptor _**out from under Commodore Norrington and himself. This time, the man had stolen away from an island full of men searching for him, while simultaneously carrying off a noblewoman -- who also happened to be the heiress of a well known shipping family -- out from under both the British Navy, and the reportedly murderous intentions of her former spouse.

With a grudging surge of admiration, Nilsen had to admit that his assessment of the fellow was still correct.

_ Damn him..._

.

.

.

"Fresh food!" came the call from one of the many small boats rowing their way around the **_Black Pearl_**. "Breads, cheeses!"

"Oranges picked this morning," shouted another in that oddly phrased Spanish that showed the language of this island was separating from its mother tongue, becoming a dialect. "Apples, bananas -- limes to keep off the scurvy.

"You, pretty lady -- you buy my limes, yes?" The merchant held up a bag of his wares, while his rower jockeyed their boat for the best position to compete with his fellow sellers.

Miranda shook her head in polite refusal, knowing full well that the man would be charging at least three times what the same items were worth on land. Other boats paddled past, offering foodstuffs, strong drink, and even a few novelties. Beads, carved figures, ladies fans, and of all things; parasols.

Some parasols were already in evidence, shading the heads of dark haired, dark eyed girls who smiled widely, raising their voices to beckon to the men of the _**Pearl**_. Their flirtatious words and suggestive gestures left no doubt in Miranda's thoughts as to what wares they might be peddling.

"Ooh! I like the look o' that one in the middle." the brawny Tearlach said to his comrades. "Looks like she'd leave a man beggin' for mercy, that one."

"Aye," said young Mr. Gordon. "But she's got nothing on my Jeannie."

"'Cept that she's here," Mr. Crimp, a fellow that Miranda had just treated for a mild eye infection pointed out to the lad. "Not in Scotland. And ye' ain't married yet."

Miranda breathed a sigh of annoyance. Crimp looked up, flushing a bit when he noticed her standing nearby.

"Well, a man's got his needs, you know." he grumbled somewhat defensively.

"Oh yes." she retorted in a voice pitched to carry, "And a woman has her 'duties'." She looked straight at him. "I remember. I was married."

The pirate actually squirmed, looking away with a muttered apology. Belatedly, Miranda decided to soften the blow.

"She is quite striking, though." she admitted while watching the giggling boatload float past.

"Not like my Jeannie." Mr. Gordon affirmed solidly. He looked sidelong at Miranda and gulped hard. "Or you, ma'am." Then blushing to his hairline, Mr. Gordon stammered out, "Think I'll go write her a letter."

"I'll go with you." Crimp announced, then shifted guiltily. "Can you help me write one to Annie?"

The younger fellow clapped his crewmate on the back, and the pair left the railing. After a moment Tearlach followed, leaving Miranda relatively alone.

Miranda sighed again, and stared down at the small flotilla. The _**Black Pearl**_ had arrived here only this morning. Four days after that frightening power her ring had displayed. The ship now rode at anchor, her sails furled as the crew made ready their plans for the trip ashore. It would only be a short walk up the beach to Havana, and from there...perhaps at last an answer or two.

"An interesting exchange." said a voice from behind her, and she started.

"Not sure if any of these gentlemen have ever quite heard that perspective before." Captain Sparrow stepped up beside her to lean against the railing.

Miranda shrugged and studied her hands. "Edward was flaunting his mistresses barely a week after we were wed." she told him bluntly, "Though I suppose I should be grateful. It took his attentions away from me for a while. And at the same time Phillip was declaring his eternal fidelity, he was busily preying on the maids of his family's home." She shrugged again. "One does grow tired of the hypocrisy."

The man at her side was quiet for a long time. Miranda felt like shrinking into the gaps in the wooden planks, wondering why in the world she had just bared that part of herself to him.

"I was right, you know." he said then, and from the corner of her eye, she saw his body turn to her. "They weren't capable of appreciating you."

Her lips twisted. "They appreciated my rank." she replied flatly, "They appreciated my family's money."

"Ah, but that's not you, is it, luv?"

Miranda looked up. The pirate was regarding her warmly. Fondly, even. Little more that a week ago, she might have found this disquieting. Now it was oddly comforting.

Comforting -- save for that fluttering in the pit of her stomach that always seemed to accompany her dealings with this man. Her face grew warm again. Another side effect to Sparrow's presence that annoyed her to no end. How was one supposed to guard one's emotions when one's unruly complexion insisted on reddening at the drop of a hat?

"And I suppose you're telling me that you see better than they?" she asked, then mentally kicked herself.

Sparrow's eyes sparkled. He always found her discomfort humorous.

"Fishing for compliments, Lady?" he grinned. "Very well then..." Leaning against the rail, one leg crossing casually over the other, he stared at her until she squirmed.

"I like you, Miranda." he said as if this were just decided. "You've not put on airs, or complained. You've not treated the men as if they're some pack of mongrels beneath your contempt -- and believe me, they've noticed it, Lady -- and you've not made outrageous demands on any of us.

"I must admit," His brows lifted. "I half expected you to try and throw me out of my own cabin when you first boarded."

"If there'd not been another woman aboard to berth with, I might very well have done just that." Miranda put in, but he only shook his head.

"All I'm saying is that if_ I've_ not acted the way you expected a pirate to behave, _you've_ not carried on the way I expected an aristocrat to behave, savvy?"

Miranda considered him, feeling strangely pleased, warmed by the words, and by the one who spoke them. She straightened and took a step closer to him, watching his eyes widen as she quite deliberately took a page from his book, and stood much closer that he'd expected.

"Savvy," she returned in a loose limbed, head waggling imitation of the man.

"You little minx," Sparrow intoned as a slow grin spread across his face.

Miranda wrinkled her nose at him, and stepped back to the railing, feeling his eyes on her.

Feeling her heart suddenly start to race.

Sparrow let out his breath in a rush. "I think I'll miss you when this is all over," he said quietly.

These words sent an unexpected pain through her.

"Soon we'll be meeting with that fellow I mentioned, and with any luck, he'll be able to tell us what this mystery of yours is all about."

"And then we 'spoke Edward's wheel', as you put it?"

"Aye, there's that." he said amiably. Then his voice hardened. "And there's insuring that 'his Lordship' and friends won't be causing you and yours any more mischief."

His face had darkened, and the feral light was back in his eyes. Miranda shivered.

"You would fight him?" Her voice trembled. "He doesn't fight fairly. I've seen it."

He studied her patiently, as if she were a slow witted child.

"What am I again, Lady?" he asked with infinite gentleness.

"A...a pirate, of course."

"Of course," he agreed pleasantly, almost purring, then lowered his head, pinning her with the intensity of his stare.

"So as such, I should see no profit in fighting 'fairly', should I?"

Miranda swallowed hard, her mouth suddenly gone quite dry. "No profit at all," she rasped.

"I'm glad we see square on it." Sparrow's entire demeanor changed then, becoming light, jovial, leaving her blinking in surprise.

"Now," he continued, "If you'll be wanting to go ashore today, you might want to --" He broke off as a voice from the water called out to him.

"Oh no..." the pirate moaned.

Miranda looked over the side. Another boat moved towards them, two men rowing furiously, while a third, paunchy fellow stared avidly up at them from beneath the gaudy cover of his parasol.

The hailing voice belonged to none of these, but rather to the woman who say proudly at the bow of the little vessel. She was -- Miranda felt a stab of envy -- she was stunningly beautiful. Black hair glossy as a raven's wing piled in a mass of curls atop her head, cascading down one side to her shoulder, and she smiled invitingly, lips the color of rubies parting to reveal even, white teeth. Her complexion seemed lit from within, from her smooth unlined brow, to the pale ample mounds that overflowed the bodice of her rich gown.

In her unadorned dress and with her windblown hair in disarray, Miranda felt very plain and very drab.

Only the eyes seemed not to fit. Large and black as the woman's hair, they were also hard, cold. The only jarring note in a face that would have had the Renaissance masters swooning as they painted her.

"Jack," she called sweetly in studied tones. "Oh, Jack."

"Hide me," Sparrow moaned in an undertone, turning his back to the rail.

"Why do you keep yourself from me?" the vision of loveliness sang out, fluttering her fan coyly. "I see you, my Captain Jack. Two years I wait for you. I keep myself only with my memories of you."

"Oh, yes," the pirate muttered, not quite under his breath, "And with the very next ship that sailed in. And the one after that, and the one after that..."

He sighed, then bending his lips into a counterfeit smile, Sparrow turned. "Zerlina," he called expansively, leaning over the side. "You're looking well."

"I waste away without you," Zerlina gushed and held out her arms to him. "I fade away, with only the shadow of your memory to hold to my poor cold breast in the night." She leaned forward, presumable to give the Captain -- and all other onlookers -- a better view of the poor, cold breast in question.

"But memory can't fill that empty place in my...heart, no?"

Miranda didn't know whether to be horrified by this display, or to laugh herself silly at Sparrow's obvious discomfort.

"Who is that?" Zerlina snapped suddenly, and Miranda realized that she'd been spotted. "Who is that creature standing there beside you?" The face was no longer lovely. Rather, it was red and contorted with rage as Zerlina reared up like a snake about to strike.

"Bastard!" she hurled, and now her voice was as harsh as her angry face. "You dare flaunt your common little strumpet in front of ME?"

"Now, Zerlina..." Sparrow began placatingly, but the woman rounded on the pudgy fellow cowering under his parasol.

"Idiot!" She slapped at his upraised arms. "You bring me all the way out here for nothing! He already has his doxy, and I could have been making love to that Portuguese captain for his gold!"

"But Flower..." the cringing man who was obviously her procurer protested, fending off her blows. "How could I have possibly known?"

She told him how in no uncertain terms, and in blazingly rapid Spanish. Then she turned her attention back to Sparrow, spitting out a list of imprecations that made the pirate flinch.

"Don't think I deserved that one," he complained after a particularly vile epithet was hurled at him.

By now, all the excitement had attracted an audience. Crewmen lined the railing again, laughing and pointing at the enraged harlot.

AnaMaria came to stand on the other side of her Captain, peering curiously at the scene.

"Friend of yours?" she asked dryly.

"You're not helping, luv," replied Sparrow in a doomed kind of voice.

"See, Flower?" the procurer whined. "He's not the only man aboard."

Zerlina scanned the line of faces with derision. "You think any of these tattered bilge eaters could afford ME?" she snorted. It was inevitable, of course, that her eye should eventually fall on AnaMaria.

"Another one?" Zerlina shrieked, and was off again, spouting accusations so quickly that Miranda actually caught very little of what was said.

She understood the word for 'whores' well enough, though. So did AnaMaria, who leaned far over the rail, her piercing voice speaking the same dialect, flinging the wretch's words right back onto her glossy head.

Zerlina threw her fan at them, then spat.

AnaMaria caught up a belaying pin, brandishing it high over her head.

"Wait!" Miranda took her upraised arm. "Oh, you must let me." Then drawing herself up in a manner that would have made all of her old instructors proud, she ignored the red faced harlot, and addressed her procurer instead.

"You there," she called evenly in flawlessly accented High Castilian. "Your little animal has entertained us, but we suggest you have her muzzled before we have you both punished for speaking so to the family of Felipe of Anjou."

The man's doughy face paled. He grabbed at Zerlina, actually snapping at the woman.

"But..."

"No, Zerlina!" he barked again, then raised his face to the ship. "Forgive us, Donna," he fawned, stumbling along in the same tongue, "She's an excitable girl, and only wanted to scold that unworthy one beside you."

Miranda fixed on her most regal mask of disdain. "He is our loyal...servant. We will hear no more of this. Be on your way, before we tire of you further."

The fat procurer needed no more encouragement. The little boat turned and made away as fast as the oarsmen could pull, the man and his angry harlot arguing loudly all the way, audible even over the hoots and catcalls of the crew.

"You think that's a good idea," AnaMaria wondered. "Pretending to to be related to the royal house of Spain? That kind of news might spread, you know."

"Who's pretending?" Miranda asked primly, still holding her rigid posture. "He's my fourth cousin." She remained in that aloof pose until the little rowboat was out of view. Turning her head slowly, she looked at AnaMaria and admitted matter-of-factly, "That was fun."

Then, the pair of them sized up the uncomfortable looking Captain Sparrow.

"I'm his 'doxy', apparently." Miranda said calmly.

_ "We're_ his 'putas'." said AnaMaria.

Sparrow looked to each of them, the corners of his mustache hitching up in a nervous smile.

"Well, she was a lot more appealing when I was drunk." he offered with a helpless fluttering of his hands.

"I see..." Miranda arched a brow, glancing to AnaMaria, who turned to her with an identical expression.

It was too much. They dissolved into laughter, AnaMaria clutching at her sides, gasping out a strangled "Ow!" between breaths.

The Captain frowned, his lower lip jutting in an offended pout. "It wasn't that funny," he insisted.

Which of course, only made it worse.

"Hoi! Jack -- Jack Sparrow!" a new voice hailed, and the pirate seemed relieved at the interruption.

A small, single masted vessel pulled along to within a few yards, the man at the rudder waving his hat, a wide grin on his lined, sun browned face.

"Thought you'd be swinging in that gibbet by now, but seein' as you're still kicking -- what do you have for me?"

"More than that tub of yours can hold, Esteban," Sparrow returned.

"Well then, drop a line," Esteban motioned for his men to lower the sail, "I'll come up, and we can hammer out the details."

Sparrow turned a haughty eye on Miranda, and swept off his hat. "On second thought, I'll come to you, mate."

And much to her surprise, Miranda watched the man quickly strip down to just his shirt and britches, and climb up onto the rail.

"You'll excuse me, ladies."

Then, he launched himself into the air. Miranda caught her breath as his body arced high over the water, arms outstretched for a moment like wings, then moving out before him another moment later. Sparrow knifed into the waves with hardly a splash in his wake.

"Show-off!" AnaMaria shouted when his dark head surfaced next to Esteban's boat. He flashed a toothy grin their way, and hauled himself up over the side.

"Strike yer colors, strike yer colors!" a raucous voice shrilled in Miranda's ear. She glanced up, finding that the tall mute, Mr. Cotton, had joined them at the rail. His brightly plumed macaw balanced easily on his shoulder.

Still grinning smugly, Captain Sparrow made a rude gesture.

"Cotton thinks he's showing off too," snorted AnaMaria.

Mr. Cotton turned his impassive face to them, and slowly winked.

"It was impressive, though." Miranda heard herself say. But that no longer clinical voice in the back of her mind sang out again. _Impressive?_ it exalted._ No, that was_ magnificent!

Secretly, she was in full agreement. Then, she noticed AnaMaria's eye on her. The First Mate was regarding her with a knowing little bend to her lips.

"What?" Miranda made it sound as casual as she could.

The girl arched her brows, her smile only growing wider. "You know 'what'." she said with disturbing perception, and glanced pointedly to the water.

Miranda followed her look -- straight to where Sparrow was hunched down in animated conversation with his friend. With an effort, she wrenched her eyes away.

"Don't be absurd."

"Absurd..." AnaMaria repeated with care. "That's a word for when someone's...fooling themselves?" She nodded thoughtfully. "Hmm..."

Then the girl stepped away, leaving Miranda with only her very troubled thoughts for company. AnaMaria was wise for her years, she reflected, and sharp as a knife. Still, she couldn't know what it was that she was asking Miranda to acknowledge.

It was dangerous. It was wrong.

It was complicated.

Their discussions apparently concluded, she watched as Sparrow and Esteban got to their feet, shaking hands enthusiastically.

With another powerful leap, Jack -- _the Captain, Miranda, the Captain_ -- was back in the water, vanishing dolphin-like from one vessel to reappear at the waterline of the other, reaching for the handholds to aid his climb up the side.

"Don't start up yet," someone commanded.

Sparrow looked up, and Miranda followed the direction of his stare.

The Boson, Marty, clung to one of the shrouds. Leaning his stunted body out over the waves, he called out again.

"Since you're already down there, you might as well check the hull."

"She looks just fine from here." Sparrow gave the darkened timber a fond thump.

Marty sighed. "Under the ship, Jack."

"I know, I know. Hold on, mate." The pirate took two deep breaths, held the third, and went under.

Miranda understood that he must be checking for the usual damages to a wooden vessel -- seaweed clumped in the rudder, barnacles by the hundred thousand to slow them down, or worst of all, the teredo -- the sea worm that could eat its way through any hull, rendering it an unworthy derelict. She hoped it wouldn't be necessary to hold here and "careen" the ship. Fast as they had traveled -- and the Black Pearl was astonishingly fast for a square rigged ship of this size and apparant age -- she nonetheless couldn't shake the fear that even now, Dunnthorpe might be closing in. Though, if all had gone as Captain Sparrow had assured, anyone inquiring would have been told that she'd sailed for China. A far cry from the route she currently traveled.

A different kind of fear began to gnaw at her mind. Restlessly, she scanned the waterline, seeing nothing but waves.

"You worried, Lady?" Marty piped up with a grin. "Don't you worry none. Jack's part fish -- his mama was one of those selkies, you know."

Miranda couldn't help but smile at this. "But he's been down there an awfully long..."

She was cut off by a splash from the other side of the ship.

"Sparrow off the starboard bow!" someone announced cheerfully, as though this were a regular occurrence. After a short while, the Captain hauled himself over the rail, water streaming from his body.

"Well?" Marty demanded, hopping down and crossing the deck.

Sparrow shook himself like a dog. "Invigorating," he remarked, squeezing the water from his hair.

The Bo'sun folded his arms and glared. "Jack..."

"Alright, mate, alright. You could have saved me the effort though -- nothing down there."

Marty's scowl deepened. "I don't see how that can be." He stood on his toes and pulled at a length of seaweed that draped from the Captain's shoulder. "What about this? Did you clean the rudder?"

"No, I ran into that on my way back up. It was a brutal clash. Nearly didn't survive it."

His attempt at humor falling flat, Sparrow spread his hands. "Look, I don't pretend to understand it myself, mate, but she's been like this for as long as I've know her. Keep her decks scrubbed and her brass polished, and she just seems to take care of the rest."

The little man stalked away, muttering under his breath.

"...Been on this ship more than two years now. No careening, no worm holes...and faster than a greased pig. It don't make sense."

Sparrow watched the man leave, then strode back to Miranda, scooping up his waistcoat and shrugging into it.

"He seemed somewhat upset about that," Miranda observed.

"Who, Marty?" He bent for his tattered sash. "He's just doing his job. That fellow's one of the best jack-tars I've ever had the privilege of sailing with."

Miranda found this evaluation surprising. When she'd first laid eyes on the Bo'sun, she'd thought him rather out of place here.

Sparrow noticed her skepticism. "Don't judge by appearances, Lady," he admonished. "Most Captains took Marty on as a kind of joke, you might say. I wouldn't have had him at all if I hadn't been desperate for a crew at the time."

He smiled ruefully. "Didn't take me long to find out that you give that man a day -- two at the most -- and there's nothing about your ship that he hasn't learned. And he can splice a line and mend a sail faster than anyone I've seen.

"You just watch yourself around him," he went on, stamping his feet into his boots, "Marty's very popular with the ladies. Every time we're in port, he's always in the company of the tallest wench with the biggest pair of..." He held his cupped hands out some distance from his chest, then apparently caught himself and glanced to her.

"...Eyes." he finished, somewhat sheepishly.

"Indeed." It was becoming very taxing to not be charmed by this pirate's so-strange ways.

As it turned out, there would be no trip to the city this day. This was met by disappointed groans from the men, until they learned that Sparrow's friend Esteban had made a very generous offer for the bulk of the 'merchandise' in the _**Black Pearl**_'s holds.

The mood became positively gleeful when the Captain mentioned that his friend had offered -- for a small reduction in the fee he would pay, of course -- to ferry over full barrels of good drinking water in exchange for the empty barrels aboard.

Weighing the prospects of a slightly lighter purse against spending a day or more hauling tons of water from shore to ship, and the outcome was never in question.

"Then let's get to it, mates." Sparrow ordered happily, clapping his hands and rubbing them together briskly, "I want that cargo up and ready to load by the time Esteban gets back with his barge."

"Aye!"

The cry was thunderous, as was the pounding of feet on the deck as fifty-odd men scrambled to follow orders.

Finding herself in the way again, Miranda went below. There, she found herself prodded by a most distressing sense of guilt. In the time spent aboard this ship, she'd grown comfortable with many of the people here.

Only...remembering that day spent in the town of Port Royal, she recalled Sparrow's offhand reference to the many ships to and from the Americas. The cargo currently being unloaded by the crew of the _**Black Pearl**_ had doubtless come from one of these.

As one whose family's fortune depended on these merchant vessels reaching their destination unmolested, she found that she was torn between a sense of profound disapproval, and a kind of grudging acceptance.

Miranda sighed and opened up her medicine case, determining to occupy herself in listing which of her drugs and herbs she might have need of replenishing.

In her present situation, it was probably best not to dwell on the moral ramifications of sailing on a pirate ship. As with her confusing relationship with the _**Black Pearl**_'s Captain, this too was complicated.  
  



	19. Chapter17

I'm a bit late in getting this one up and running. Sorry about that. :(

Michiru, your reviews never disappoint. Even when distracted by term papers. LOL! And no, I wouldn't believe that Zerlina was airbrushed either.

Poor Elizabeth. That would make her the only gal in the story with enhanced cleavage.

Well, I shouldn't put it that way -- any lady with a corset on in the first place was treated to that kind of enhancement.

Ok... HOW did we get on this subject?!

We'll just get on with the story now, eh? Have a good read, and please review!

Oh yeah... (mutter, mutter, grumble) Story's based on characters and situations owned by Disney/Bruckheimer, and I don't own any of 'em except the ones I created, blah, blah, blah... Yee-fricken'-HAW! Let's get this show on the road -- or out on the water, whatever you prefer.  
  
**

Chapter 17

**  
  
"Welcome to Cuba," Jack remarked as their jolly boat slid onto the shoreline. "A land where the Spanish Navy is so busy sizing up the British, hoping the truce'll break, they don't notice folk like us at all."

"Let's hope yer right about that." Joshamee jumped into the surf, helping two of the men haul the boat up onto the sand.

Jack stepped out onto land, staggered a bit, then turned to offer his hand.

"Come on, Lady," he urged, distracting Miranda from her intense study of the list in her hand.

"Are we here?" She blinked around, as if surprised to find herself ashore. "Oh -- so we are." Taking his hand, she stepped onto the beach, leaning against him momentarily as she tried to steady herself.

"I'd forgotten about this," Miranda admitted, taking a few rolling steps. Her arms were held out to aid her balance.

"You'll get used to it." Jack pulled AnaMaria to her feet, keeping a hold of her arm until she was sure of her footing. Miranda turned, hitching her leather satchel over her shoulder.

"Have you? Gotten used to it, I mean?"

"Absolutely," he returned with a perfectly straight face while simultaneously shaking his head in the negative. 

She gave him a wry look. Jack grinned back, then eyed Gibbs, who had pulled a large cloth wrapped object from their boat. The Quartermaster was furtively trying to conceal his odd bundle under his arm.

"What's that you're carrying?"

Gibbs looked vaguely embarrassed.

"Oh, 'S nothin'," The Quartermaster shrugged. "Just the fancy stuff from my take o' the haul."

"Ah." Jack honestly couldn't remember what the fellow had claimed. His own share of the 'fancies' currently rode in his pockets. Esteban dealt in bulk merchandise. For these, he'd need someone who specialized in... smaller allotments.

"Are we all here?"

More jolly boats pulled up alongside theirs, and the little stretch of sand was soon filled with sailors moving unsteadily about. One broke from his band, approaching Jack with a purposeful look on his face.

"Here you go, mate," Jack called, tossing a coin pouch to the man, "Get what we need for the stores."

Hichler, the ship's cook, nodded smartly. He and the ones assigned to help him with his purchasing headed up towards town.

"Wait... " Miranda started after them. "Does he know to get oranges? I told him to ignore the limes, but he might forget about..."

"You told him three times already," AnaMaria interrupted. "And then you wrote it down twice more." 

Miranda still looked doubtful.

"He'll remember." Jack waved impatiently. "You convinced him well enough, and we're all sick of limes anyways." Honestly, the woman found the strangest things to worry herself with. Though by now, the idea of something other than limes to ward off scurvy was attractive to say the least.

One last reminder to those ashore to keep their heads and not make trouble, and the odd assortment made its way into Havana, splitting off into smaller groups as they went.

"Hold on," Jack said just before they reached town. Pulling a pistol from beneath his waistcoat, he pressed it into Miranda's hand.

"Here, luv. Just in case."

"But I don't need... " she began, eyeing it with some concern.

"Humor me, Lady." He closed her fingers around the weapon. "This can be a rough place."

She didn't look happy about it, but she slipped the pistol into her satchel all the same. It was a small gun, and easily concealed.

"If anything, you can bluff with it. Now, while I'm off looking for Thadius, you just stick close to these two," he instructed, pointing to Gibbs and the First Mate.

"Thadius?" Gibbs gave him a hard look. "Thadius Gorsse?" He'll not be happy to see you again."

"What's this?" Miranda looked warily between them.

Jack sighed. Of course, the man just couldn't have let it lay.

"Thadius Gorsse was a rector in Bahama. One o' them Church o' England types," Gibbs explained shortly. "Some years ago, Jack here got hisself in a bit o' trouble, so he disguises himself as a priest 'n hides out for a while.

"Well, Jack bein' Jack, turns out there was some free imbibin' of the communion wine, along with some... " Gibbs paused meaningfully, then gave a knowing nod. "Improprieties, ye might say, with some o' the more notable ladies of the parish."

"How was I supposed to know church wine was that strong?" Jack protested, suddenly not at all comfortable with the look Miranda was now giving him. "And Thadius wasn't exactly what you'd call a model of temperance himself."

"So anyways," the old tattler went on loudly, as if Jack had not spoken. "By the time our Cap'n takes his leave, there's a lot less gold in the church's coffers, a band o' irate husbands, and the rector's left holdin' the bag for it."

"They found me out anyway. It was high on my list of crimes 'numerous and sinister'."

"Aye, but Gorsse got hisself excommunicated -- or defrocked, or whatever it is the Anglicans do when a priest don't act too clergy-none." Gibbs frowned, shifting his parcel under his arm. "Why d'you want to talk to him? From what I hear of it, he's like to shoot you soon as look at you." 

"Because the old sot may have been an abysmal failure as a man of the cloth, but he's an absolute genius when it comes to deciphering old languages." Jack scratched at his chin. "Had himself a whole library full of writings I've never seen before. If there's anyone in the whole of the Spanish Main that has a chance of telling us what that little stone has carved into it, the odds lay with him.

"And besides, mate...I'm not the one who'll be doing the talking with him. That would be you, Lady."

He couldn't help but smile at her obvious discomfort. "No worries, Milady," Jack deliberately looked her up and down in the way he knew would irritate her. "All you'll need do is buy him a couple of mugs, smile, maybe flutter your eyelashes -- before you know it, he'll be clay in your dainty little hands."

"I don't think I want him on my 'dainty little hands', Captain Sparrow," she informed him sourly. "They're quite full enough with having to deal with you."

Jack affected a tragic look, and held his hands to his heart.

"It pains your 'loyal servant' to hear it. Come on," he moved up the road before she could snap at him. "This day's not getting any younger."

The town of Havana had grown far beyond its settlement origins. In this day and age, it was a thriving port community for merchants and sea farers.

_And_, Jack thought,_ with just the right amount of mischief makers and scoundrels to make the place interesting_. 

The marketplace was a crowded affair, awash with the cries of vendors from all parts of the globe offering all manner of goods.

To buy, to sell, to trade. All of them claiming to have the best prices, the fairest deals, the absolutely finest wares to be found from here to the Old World. Here, the exotic rubbed shoulders with the mundane. One breath could bring the sweet odors of incense and perfumes, and the next -- the stench of livestock. Of unwashed bodies, and spoiled foods.

Already, Jack found himself longing for the open waters with every rolling, weaving step.

Tossing a small coin to the sharp eyed keeper of a booth loaded with fruit, he plucked a green apple from the pile, sinking his teeth into the tart flesh with relish. The shopkeep nodded curtly, then turned his attention to another customer, somehow missing the fact that several of the little apple's probably branchmates had already found their way into Jack's pockets.

And a banana or two.

And an orange.

If the fellow couldn't be bothered to keep better track of his merchandise, then Jack didn't feel the need to draw his attention to it.

Equally unaware of his casual pilfering, Miranda stopped at a booth that emanated the rich aroma of spices. She lingered for a time, purchasing this, or examining that, all the while giving advice to AnaMaria on what these plants and powders might be useful for.

AnaMaria nodded politely, but Jack thought the girl looked a bit bored.

Gibbs hadn't waited with them, but continued on his own, still glancing furtively about as he passed the food sellers and the keepsake vendors. On impulse, Jack followed him, hanging behind as his old friend stopped finally at a large booth brightly festooned with fabrics of all makes.

Shifting his bundle under his arm, Gibbs cleared his throat. The merchant looked up from his ledger, regarding the bewhiskered pirate with fastidious disapproval.

Jack wasn't close enough to hear whatever words were traded, but when Gibbs removed the drab wrapping from his bundle, the merchant's expression changed abruptly to quickly concealed excitement.

He knew _that_ look. Whatever it was that Gibbs had, this fellow wanted it. Jack moved closer, tossing away the core of his apple.

"Got a full sixteen yard of it here," said the Quartermaster, unrolling a length for the merchant's inspection. "M'sure you can find some interested buyers."

"Quite possibly," the merchant agreed with a careful nod of his head. "I'll give you...twenty five? For the lot, that is."

Gibbs looked vaguely disappointed, but was almost ready to accept, when he was interrupted by the arrival of the ladies.

"Oh, that's lovely!" Miranda exclaimed, and Jack saw surprise register on Gibbs' weathered face when she reached for the unrolled fabric, turning it this way and that in the light, then draping it against her body.

"I've always loved this color," she went on, brushing her hand lightly over the surface. "And the needlework -- this is exquisite."

Jack had to admit that the old dog had gotten himself quite a haul. Even AnaMaria seemed taken by the rich cloth : a deep violet silk heavily beaded and embroidered in silver threads and tiny coiled wires, awash with a striking pattern of vines, and flowers. The kind of luxury that only the most wealthy could afford for their garments.

But then, Jack remembered, Miranda was most likely among that category.

"Are you selling this?" she turned to Gibbs with a hopeful smile. "How much are you asking?"

"I've already reached an agreement with the gentleman," the cloth merchant cut in, sensing danger. "But I would be more than happy to accommodate you once our business is concluded. Now," he reached out, actually taking a hold of Gibbs' arm and trying to steer him out of the Lady's hearing. "Have we a deal?"

Gibbs looked dubious. "I dunno...twenty five seems a tad low for somethin' so fine."

The merchant shook his head, but the fellow had reckoned without the Lady's sharp ears.

"Twenty five," she asked incredulously. "Twenty five _silver_ -- for how many yards? Sixteen?" she repeated when Gibbs told her. "Oh, that's nowhere near right. I'll give you three gold sovereigns."

The Quartermaster's breath went out in a rush. He grinned, opening his mouth to accept, when the merchant piped out "Four gold!"

"Five." Miranda countered, eyes narrowing.

"Seven!"

Gibbs goggled back and forth between them, jaw hanging wide as the two escalated their offers. "Ten gold sovereigns, and not a copper more!"

Miranda's face fell. With obvious regret, she conceded the buy to the cloth seller, who's smug expression faltered when Gibbs eagerly held out his hand.

Jack sauntered up beside the Lady. She was examining some of the merchant's other wares, but with considerably less enthusiasm.

"You played that well," he complimented. "That had to be...what -- more than five times what he was trying to cheat Joshamee out of?" 

"Who was playing?" Miranda asked with a mournful little sigh. "I only wish I'd seen it first."

"Well, why didn't you just outbid him?"

"I would have," she admitted. "But it's not as if I brought the entire contents of the family vault with me. And unless you plan to sail me to the Factor's office of my father's company, I thought it best to be prudent with what funds I do have. What if this 'Gorsse' fellow of yours requires that I pay him for his information?"

She moved away to another booth, picking over the items there.

He stared after her for a moment, then shrugged, returning his attention to a Quartermaster who was virtually shivering with glee.

"Quite a haul for that, eh?" he observed. Gibbs smiled so widely that Jack was amazed his face didn't split.

"Oh, aye! Who'd've thought that frippery would be worth so much?"

"Mmm..." Jack couldn't resist. He leaned right up to Gibbs' ear.

"Still think it was unlucky to have her along, mate?" 

Gibbs scowled mightily. Then his fingers closed over the weight of the new coin pouch in his hand, and his expression softened dramatically. Grudgingly, he had to admit that perhaps Jack had a point, at that.

"Glad to hear it. Now..." Jack glanced up to the sun, and was surprised to find how much time had passed since they'd landed. Now would be as good a time as any to separate off from this group. There were a few people he wanted to track down while he was here, not the least of whom being the 'revered' Father Thadius. Most of them didn't frequent the kind of places he thought the Lady Warringford willing to set foot in.

"You know where to meet up?"

"Aye. So you're off, then?"

Jack nodded, shifting the baldric slung over his shoulder so that his sword rested in easier reach.

"Look after her, eh?" He angled his head towards Miranda, who was still engaging in her purchases. "Make sure no one bothers her."

"Not likely to happen with the 'She-Devil of the Spanish Main' right there next to her." Gibbs snorted. He beaded his eyes at Jack, lowering his voice to a near whisper. "More to the point, what happens if you find yourself in a fix again -- an' don't tell me to 'keep to the code', neither."

"Why, Joshamee," Jack hung an arm around the Quartermaster's shoulder. "I'm touched. But you'd best watch yourself, mate. Keep carrying on like this, and people will start talking."

He moved away, leaving his affronted crewman sputtering like a teapot.

"Try not to be all day about it," Joshamee yelled after him. "Cotton says we've got rain comin'!" 

Jack only waved back over his shoulder. Slipping easily through the crowds, he spotted his men here and there as they bartered, bought, or sold.

Kursar exchanged a nod with him when the cooper crossed his path on his way to the supplies that would keep him plying his very necessary craft.

As for himself, Jack was heading for the wharfs, and for the people that made their lives by the sea. He made his way through familiar twists and turns, recognizing the old haunts, while taking note of newer places and faces that had moved in since he'd last walked these streets.

The next few hours were best described as frustrating. All of the taverns and alehouses that Gorsse was known to frequent had turned up no information on the whereabouts of the defrocked priest. The '_Thirsty Goat_', the '_Watchman's Bell_', the '_Hound and Hind_' -- all had reported that the fellow's last visit had been several months prior.

It wasn't until he gave up on the usual spots and called on an old friend and her husband, who also happened to be the best 'fence' in the country, that Jack got a glimmer of hope.

"Said Cuba didn't have anything for him anymore," reported Caesar Manolo, examining the fine bits of jewelry that emerged from Jack's pockets with interest. "And that he wanted to seek his fortunes elsewhere."

"And you'll never guess where he ended himself up," Anita had chimed in, a sly smile on her plump, lovely face.

Tortuga, Jack reflected, now back out on the street, his pocket holding a satisfyingly full, new bag of coins. He had to laugh aloud at the irony. The pompous ass had actually ventured to the most notorious pirate stronghold in the region! He could hardly wait to share this news with Joshamee. The old salt was sure to enjoy the humor in this nearly as much as he did. 

But as he moved through the streets to rejoin his crewfolk, Jack was struck once again by the same niggling feeling that had plagued him all this day -- the feeling that he was being followed.

This was not unusual. As a matter of course, Jack found himself dodging all manner of people in ports like this. Local militia, press gangs, old enemies... and old paramours.

He'd spent a lifetime honing and mastering the art of slipping free from unwanted situations.

Whoever was dogging his steps today was not being very polite about the whole thing. They simply refused to be properly shaken from his trail, or even to remain out in the open long enough for him to get a clear picture of who, or how many, were after him.

He paused in an alleyway, acting like a drunkard relieving himself while keeping his ears attuned for the sounds of his pursuers. 

There! -- footsteps nearing his position. At least two, and not bothering to disguise their approach. 

Jack considered his options. His alley was a dead end, and with only one pistol and a sword, he did not want to find himself trapped with no way out.

Which, of course, left him no other choice but to wait until the footsteps were nearly on top of him, then launch himself tipsily out into the street, and to whoever might be waiting.

As luck would have it, the footsteps belonged to a pair of streetwalkers, doubtless on their way to claim a likely corner to do business from. The two shrieked with fright when he staggered into them.

Jack forced a belch, swaying drunkenly on the spot.

"Pard'n me," he slurred, squinting blearily at the pair. "Doan' suppose either o' you pretty ladies know the way to the _Thirsty Goat_'?" 

Recovering her composure, the older of the strumpets jerked her thumb back over her shoulder, while the younger, a hard eyed girl with brittle yellow hair stared appraisingly at him.

"It's a long way off." she pointed out with a shrug calculated to cause the sleeve of her shabby dress to slip from her shoulder. "There's better places close by, and you'll be wantin' some company, won't you, Captain?"

He chuckled at this. Regardless of real standing, port whores always called the sailors 'Captain'. A way to flatter lowly, drunken swabs into more generosity. This girl was attractive enough. If he'd not had any other plans for the day, Jack might have been convinced to take her up on her offer. If only... 

If only that disappointingly weak, sentimental part of him wasn't preoccupied with serious green eyes that could turn mischievous at a moments notice. With a laughing mouth, and auburn hair that held the remembered breath of orange blossoms and sandalwood, so unlike the overpowering waves of cheap perfume that these two had doused themselves with.

Jack shook himself. Good Lord -- was he actually mooning again? For another moment he entertained the idea of hiring the services of the yellow haired one for an hour or so, and take out his desires on someone a bit more receptive to the idea. 

As it was, the two strumpets pouted at his slurry refusal.

"Got to meet up with me mates. Doan' wannem sailin' wifout us." He drew a couple of small coins from his pocket, handing one to each. "But you go n' have yerselves one on ole Rinaldo, eh?" With that, he staggered away, humming tunelessly and careening from side to side down the narrow street. Finding his way back to the rendezvous took a bit of time.

Still wary of followers, Jack wove a convoluted path through the town, emerging at last at the mouth of another alley that lead out to the main market square.

Spotting Gibbs was easy enough, what with the tall form of Sam Bottoms standing nearby. The old dog's back was turned to where Jack stood, and he was gesturing broadly, jerking his body about in a very odd way. Seated on a stone bench, AnaMaria looked up at him, amused by what he was saying.

Jack didn't see the Lady Warringford until Gibbs gave another jerky, flailing movement, stumbling back as though he'd received a blow to the face. His body had blocked Miranda from view.

Seated beside AnaMaria, eyes wide and with a hand covering her mouth, it was very apparent that she was laughing. She turned to AnaMaria with a look of disbelief. Jack saw the girl nod proudly, which made Miranda laugh even harder.

He couldn't be certain, of course, but he suspected that the Quartermaster's strange movements were an attempt to imitate his Captain, and from the look of the First Mate, it had something to do with getting his face slapped.

Oh, well. At least they were entertaining themselves.

His eyes fell on the noblewoman again, and his stomach gave another of those peculiar lurches. She was smiling up at Sam as the gunner handed a red apple to each of the ladies.

Jack felt an unaccustomed stab of jealousy. Miranda was a fair sight to look upon, sure enough, but when she smiled like that, she made his knees weak. All at once he wanted that smile for himself alone. 

_Then seduce her_, his jaded, ruthless side advised sensibly, _and have done with it. It's only that she's resisted you this long that's making you act like a bloody idiot. _

"Perhaps it is, at that," he muttered aloud. But the thought didn't make him feel any better. He had begun to think of the Lady as a... as a friend, not a conquest.

Nibbling on her apple, Miranda glanced around the square. She seemed anxious now. Jack wondered if she might be searching for himself, and fixed a sardonic smile to his lips as her eyes found the alley he stood in. He wasn't looking forward to the way her face would surely fall when she learned that their quarry was no longer on this island.

But her eyes moved away, not appearing to have seen him at all.

He might as well get the bad news over with now. Jack took a step forward --

-- And felt hard hands grab at his arms, pulling him back into the alley. Another clamped down over his mouth as he tried to shout, and then the breath was knocked from him by the fist that drove into his gut.

_Not good!_ he thought wildly, kicking out with his legs.

"Hold him!" a voice growled in harsh whispers. "Keep him quiet."

More blows followed, so quickly that Jack lost count, leaving him hanging limply in the arms of his assailants.  
  
Cut off from his men.  
  
Completely alone.

.

.

.

  
  
**A/N:__**And here I give you once again one of my patented cliffhanger endings. Sorry again that this one was so late...I promise to behave myself with the next one. 


	20. Chapter18

Hello at last! So sorry it's taken so long to get this update here, but work has been an absolute nightmare! No time for writing at all, and no time for uploading and correcting my text for viewer consumtion here either. :(

So as a result, you've been left with that horrible cliffhanger for quite some time. I hope that the sheer size of this chapter will help make up for it -- but no promises on that score!

This will be yet another one of my patented monster sized chapters, and will be split up into two parts. The sheer amount of text in this single chapter was just too much for this poor site to handle all on one page, so as a result... well, you get the idea.

As always, thanks to my reviewers! Michiru, I'll find a way to get you! I swear, I will! LOL!

Sorry about that cliffie, ShimmeringTears, and Anaknusan -- hope you enjoy this next part!

And a BIIIIGGGG thanks to Scarlett Burns -- Author extrodinair, and one HELL of a beta reader, who went above and beyond the call of duty to slog her way through this massive undertaking. Don't tell her, but I don't think the poor dear knows what she's gotten herself into with this one.

And also, as always, I don't own anything but the original characters in this story-that-ate-my-life, so please, oh great and powerful mouse eared ones, don't sue me.

On with the show!  
  
**

Chapter 18

**

Jack fought to recover himself, his breath coming in great wheezing gasps, while those that held him up forced his buckling legs to remain standing.

"I think that's calmed him down, boys," that harsh voice said again. "Get his guns."

Rough hands moved swiftly over him, plucking the flintlock from his belt, and sword from its sheath.

"Just the one, Captain," the searcher informed. "And the sword." There was a dull, metallic 'clank' as his weaponry was carelessly tossed aside.

Four men, Jack thought, and possibly more. Two holding him up, one doing the searching, and the leader of this cheery band.

_ Definitely not good. _

"Well, well, well," the hard voice drawled. "A popular little bird we've caught in this net, eh, boys?"

Jack's captors chortled at their leader's joke. He made an effort to wrench his arms free, but the two that held him twisted them up behind his back hard enough to nearly bring tears to his eyes. He slumped down, determining to show compliance.

_ Bide your time, Jack,_ he told himself and gritted his teeth. _Bide your time. _

"I'm afraid you gentlemen have me at a disadvantage."

"And that's just the way we like it, isn't it, boys?" More laughter, then one of the iron hands left his arm to seize the braided club of dreadlocks at the back of his head, sharply forcing his head up.

"Javier Vallasquar," Jack breathed, staring up at the smirking figure before him.

"Jack Sparrow," Vallasquar intoned with a mocking little half bow, touching his fingers to his forehead.

"_Captain_ Jack Sparrow, if you please." Jack corrected. This earned him another vicious yank at his hair. His mind raced. Javier Vallasquar was the worst kind of pirate -- one who had made dealings with both the British and Spanish authorities, and now made his living by preying upon the very men he'd sailed with. Capturing others in the 'trade' for the bounties offered on their heads.

As troublesome as he'd made himself in these waters, said authorities would be all too happy to see Jack.

_ Who knows, _he thought wryly, _They might even start another war over who gets to hang me first._

"So who do we sell 'im to," asked the fellow who held his right arm. "The limeys, or the Spanish?"

"Si," chimed the one on his left, "Who's offering more?"

"Oh, no. This one's not going anywhere yet." Vallasquar grinned, displaying a mouth full of stained, rotting teeth. "He's got something worth more than all his bounties put together."

Remembering the words overheard while he'd clung to the back of Dunnthorpe's departing coach, Jack went cold. Was it Miranda and her ring that this man referred to? Had Vallasquar somehow made dealings with the nobleman?

But the pirate-turned-bounty hunter took him completely aback with his next words.

"He knows where treasure be, boys. He know the way to Isla de Muerta."

_ This _again? Jack nearly laughed aloud, but marshaled himself and did his best to look frightened. "You don't want to be going to that godforsaken place, Vallasquar. You've no idea what's waiting there." He shuddered dramatically, and shook his head. "No idea."

Vallasquar loomed over him. "I don't scare easy. You're going to tell me everything I want to know, or I promise you -- you'll wish we'd hanged you."

_Damn_. How in the hell was he going to get out of this one? More to the point, how was he going to extricate himself without severe blood loss? Vallasquar wasn't a very patient individual. His faced darkened angrily, obviously mistaking Jack's silence for defiance.

"The little bird's not tamed enough, I think," he growled. "Lonzo -- teach him some manners."

Lonzo, a towering, swarthy fellow whose shoulders bulked like an ox, grinned foully and cracked his knuckles.

Jack tried to steel himself. This was going to be very, very unpleasant.

The first blow impacted his cheekbone with a force that made him wonder why his eye hadn't exploded. The next rattled every tooth in his head, split the skin on the inside of his cheek, and the metallic tang of blood spread over his tongue.

"Belay that, you dolt!" he heard Vallasquar snap, "Do that again and I'll gut you. How's he supposed to say where the gold is if you break his mouth?"

Lonzo muttered an apology, then almost as an afterthought, raised his knee hard into Jack's middle.

Jack doubled over, silently cursing the men who held him upright. Had they just let him fall, a couple of handfuls of thrown dirt and a mad scramble for his weaponry might have been all he needed to rejoin his friends. But their grip remained fast. All he could do was dangle helplessly between them, and like the drowning man, grasp at straws to stay afloat.

"Parley...Captain Vallasquar," he panted. "Let's...discuss this...like gentlemen."

Lonzo raised his fist again, but Vallasquar blocked his arm.

"I'll hear you out, Sparrow. Talk."

Jack straightened carefully. The hold on his arms loosened a bit, but they still had a solid grip on him. "What do you say to a bargain between us, then? I've actually wanted to try my hand at getting to that treasure myself. Only thing is, the British Navy's been patrolling that region too.

"Looking for me, no doubt," he added modestly. "I've been something of a thorn in their side, you might say. But if our ships were to sail together..." He let the thought hang there, and raised his eyebrows meaningfully.

"Think about it -- between your ship and mine, we could blast through their lines, get to the treasure, and be back out before they knew what hit them." He smiled winningly. "More than just Cortez's gold waiting there...Savvy? I'd be willing to share."

Vallasquar's eyes were alight with greed. After Barbossa's death and the capture of his crew, it hadn't taken long for many to start wondering where the spoils of ten years of raiding and looting might have ended up. The pieces were clicking together in the bounty hunter's mind.

Then Vallasquar shook his head in a parody of regret. Jack knew the decision had not gone in his favor.

"I don't think so, little bird," was the disappointing reply. "You forget, the British are friends of mine now that I give them people like you." Vallasquar hooked his thumbs in his belt. "I make you another deal. You give me the bearings, or..." he nodded to the brawny man at his side, "...I have Lonzo carve them out of you. Piece. By. Piece."

Lonzo looked as though someone had announced that Christmas had come early. With a huge, leering grin that showed the gaps courtesy of his missing teeth, he pulled a long, wicked knife from his belt.

Jack felt the hat knocked from his head, and Lonzo's hand grabbing a fistful of hair, jerking his head back. The swarthy man laid the edge of his blade almost lovingly against Jack's cheek.

"Now, let's not be hasty, mates," Jack stammered, shrinking back and rolling his eyes with a fear that was not entirely feigned. "We have a golden opportunity here!"

A good kick, he told himself, should stumble Lonzo into the wall. Then, if he could just manage to wriggle his arms free of his coat sleeves...

"Wrong, little bird," Vallasquar corrected pleasantly. "You had a golden opportunity -- to live. Show him, Lonzo."

The knife pressed into his skin. "Hold him." the swarthy man ordered, and an arm snaked around Jack's throat.

Lonzo bent close, his oily face scant inches away. "Captain Vallasquar say I can't hurt your mouth." he informed with breath that reeked like an open grave. "But he no say anything about cutting up your pretty face, eh? I no think the ladies like you so much when I'm done. Or..." The knife withdrew from his face. Jack felt the point jab him much lower in a most uncomfortable area. "...Maybe I cut something else first? Then the ladies not like you at all."

"That would be most unfortunate," Jack croaked out. The four laughed outright.

"Should have talked when you had the chance." said the one on his right arm.

Then, something flew past Jack's eye line. The impression of something red and white, and traveling very fast. It impacted full into the face of the one who had just spoken. The man roared in pain, pulling his arm from Jack's neck and staggering back with his hands covering his face, while a half eaten apple bounced and rolled along the filthy ground.

_** BANG!**_

Everyone flinched at the sound of gunfire. Lonzo spun away with a grunt, knife hand now held to his other shoulder. This left Jack with only one man holding onto him, but at the moment, he was too startled to take advantage of it.

Miranda stood just within the mouth of the alley, smoke wafting gently from the muzzle of the discharged flintlock in her hand.

His heart sank. She'd used the little pistol he'd pressed on her, but her shot hadn't done much damage. Lonzo glared up from his bloody shoulder with murder in his eyes.

Red streaming from his nose, the fellow who'd met her flung apple looked ready to tear her limb from limb.

"Well, well," Vallasquar looked the noblewoman over. "One of Sparrow's little whores come to save his sorry hide?" But the bounty hunter sounded unnerved. He hadn't expected any interruptions.

Her eyes flickered briefly. The only outward sign that Miranda had even heard him speak. She stood in the fashion duelist adopted: body turned profile to present the smallest target, arm pointed straight ahead. But there was something odd about that.

Jack looked again. Miranda's pistol was gripped in her left hand. At least she'd hit something this time.

"Too bad you only get the one shot." Vallasquar turned to Jack. "Maybe I give her to Lonzo. Might make you want to talk when he starts cutting into that pretty skin, no?" Lonzo gave a wicked laugh. Shifting his grip on his knife, he started toward the Lady.

Jack's warning to run died on his lips. Faster than he would have believed of her, Miranda's left hand dropped into her satchel, coming back up with another, larger pistol. At the same time, her body turned forward, the gun in her right hand swinging up to join the other.

_ That little minx! _

No wonder she'd tried to tell him she didn't need his gun...she'd brought her own from her manor. And who did that other one belong to? Good God -- how many more would the woman come up with?

Lonzo froze, smile fading from his ugly face. Even Vallasquar fell back a step or two.

"Still carrying one for every day of the week, Francesca, luv?" Jack offered, bluffing as fast as he could. "Gentlemen, I'm sure you've all heard of 'Flintlock Fran', the 'Red...Baroness of Dorchett'?"

Oh, he would surely pay for that later...if they lived, of course.

"She's just one slip of a wench!" Lonzo snarled, passing his knife from hand to hand, "She can't kill all of us." Vallasquar and Bloody-Nose muttered agreement, ranging out around their comrade. They wouldn't be able to surround her. The alley was too narrow for that, but they might risk rushing her en masse.

"Oh, she'll not need kill you to stop you," Jack announced brightly, still encumbered with the last of the four men, who was trying to use him as a shield. "Aim lower, luv."

Miranda gave him a startled glance. Then, her face took on that remote, mask-like air. She lowered her guns to a point just below the belt lines of the three closest her.

Bloody-Nose flinched back, hands dropping to cover his privates. Vallasquar and his man held their ground, but advanced no farther.

"The local law will have heard that shot," she told them coolly. "They'll be here at any time."

"And then what?" Vallasquar snapped, pointing to Jack. "They see his brand, they take_ him_ away. And if you try and run, my men are spread out all over this town. They catch the both of you." His voice took on a leering note. "Take you both to my ship."

Her brows lifted. "Not today, I think."

"Aye, and not ever."

Sam Bottoms came around the corner and into the alley, a stout cudgel in his big hands. He stepped up to one side of the Lady, while Gibbs joined her on the other, sword in hand, and reaching out to claim one of the pistols -- his own, Jack realized -- from her hand.

Stalemate. The combatants eyed each other warily, waiting for someone to make the first move.

Bellowing in frustration, Vallasquar pulled a rusty sword from his belt, lunging at Miranda, who's shot went wild, hitting the wall and spraying out stone shards.

Sam closed with him, driving Lonzo back as well as he swung his cudgel in wide arcs, while Gibbs' shot sent Bloody-Nose to retreating, clutching at his leg as Gibbs continued to hazard him with his sword.

Jack saw Miranda dart forward, snatching up his own pistol. He set himself, and threw his head back hard into the face of the fellow clinging to him. There was a satisfying 'crunch', and with a pained yelp, the hands released him. Jack dropped to the ground, kicking his legs out to sweep his captors feet out from under him. The man fell heavily, flailing his arms in another attempt to grab him.

One hand latched onto his boot. Jack brought his other foot slamming down, and the hand released him, freeing him to scramble up and sprint to the Lady's side.

"Here!" She held out the butt of his pistol, then handed up his cutlass next.

"Come on," he urged, stuffing the gun into his belt and taking hold of her arm.

Lonzo was slumped against the wall, bleeding heavily from a gash in his head. Sam blocked a vast overhand blow from Vallasquar, then rammed the end of his cudgel into the bounty hunter's gut.

"Go!" Joshamee bellowed as he brought the pommel of his sword into sharp contact with his opponent's already injured face. "We'll catch up."

Jack ran for the square, pulling Miranda along. He halted in the mouth of the alley, scanning the area for any of his captors reinforcements.

Amidst the crowd of faces staring anxiously in their direction, he spotted several ugly looking characters making their way purposefully across the marketplace.

"This way! The shots came from here, Sergeant!"

Jack looked to the other side. A tight group of uniformed men came into view, bayonets already fixed to their muskets.

"Bloody hell..." He turned and dragged Miranda back down the alley. "Can't get out that way."

Gibbs stood guard over Bloody-Nose and his friend.

"More 'o these?"

"And worse. The military's here. Split up, find the men, and get back to the boats. Mr. Bottoms!"

Sam's head snapped around.

"Finish up there, boy!"

Sam nodded, blocking another slice, then drove his fist into Vallasquar's face. The bounty hunter went sprawling to the ground, rusty blade dropping. Sam brought his heel down on the sword, shattering it near the hilt.

A blur of movement caught Jack's eye. He turned in time to see Lonzo push away from the wall, roaring a curse, his knife descending towards Miranda's unprotected back. Jack threw her aside, stepping up to meet the enraged man, sword rising to block the blow.

Too slow!

The point of the knife bit deep into his shoulder. Jack hissed in pain, but his snarling attacker let out a strangled little groan.

The fire left Lonzo's eyes. He stared down with dawning comprehension at the length of steel embedded in his chest. With a gurgling sigh, he slid off the end of Jack's cutlass, crumpling in a motionless heap.

"Jack!" Miranda stepped over the body, fingers already probing at his shoulder.

"No time," he told her, and grabbed her hand. "Come on, darlin'."

They ran, Sam and Joshamee pounding along behind. Jack lead the way down the alley and through a series of turns meant to throw off pursuers.

"That way!" he called to his men, pointing them down another street. "Find the men!"

"We'll see you on the ship," Gibbs yelled back, and he and Sam separated off.

Jack slowed his pace as they neared a main road, still keeping a hold of the Lady's hand.

"Where's AnaMaria?"

"I sent her back to the boats," Miranda gasped, fighting to catch her breath.

"And she listened?" Jack was surprised. He'd expected the feisty girl to be right there in the thick of it.

"Well..." Miranda dropped the hem of her skirts to press a hand to her heart. "More like I begged her to go. She's not yet fully recovered, and Mr. Gibbs wanted the ship signaled."

"Ah." Jack pulled her down another side street, trying to ignore the burning ache in his arm.

And his stomach...and his face.

"Tell me something," he said, pausing to peer around a corner, then sheathing his sword and tucking her hand under his arm, hoping that the two of them looked nothing more suspicious than a couple out for an afternoon stroll. "How is it that you have such deadly accuracy with thrown produce, but can't shoot a man to save your life?"

"I don't like guns," she replied firmly, glancing uneasily about as they crossed the road. "I don't like the sound, I don't like the smell, and I don't like the way they try to jump out of your hand when you pull the trigger."

"Thought it must be something like that." He grinned wryly, and ran a hand through his hair. His scalp still smarted from his mistreatment.

Noticing something, he cast a mournful glance back the way they'd come. "I've lost my hat."

The Lady gave a strangled laugh. "Captain Sparrow, if you're suggesting we return for it, I must respectfully decline." She tipped her head back and gave him a hard look. "And, I'll shoot you myself."

"Why, Lady Warringford -- I do believe you've spent far too much time in the company of my First Mate." Again, he felt that strange flutter in his middle when she smiled up at him.

"There he is!"

Jack spun. A wiry, shabby fellow with a scraggly beard had just emerged from another street, pointing wildly, while his much bulkier companion drew a double barreled pistol from behind his back.

"You -- Sparrow!" the skinny one called. "Someone wants a word with you!"

"Stupid," snapped the larger one, sending his partner sprawling with a shove. "We could've gotten closer if you'd kept yer mouth shut."

The twin barrels leveled at his legs. They were trying to take him alive.

"Run, luv!" Jack pushed her around another corner, hurling himself after as the gun went off behind them, the two rounds shattering into the brick of the building. He would have continued up the road, but Miranda pulled him to a halt.

"Wait!" She pointed to a half opened gate. "In there!"

She bent first, and pulled off a shoe. Turning, she threw it up the street with all her might, then tugged at his arm, signaling for him to follow.

They huddled behind the gate, listening for the arrival of this latest pair. The sound of running feet halted just outside their hiding place. For a few seconds, all Jack could hear was the labored breathing of Vallasquar's men.

"Look," one of them announce excitedly. "They went that way -- see? She dropped somethin'." The sound of their running feet faded away.

Jack waited, then held up a finger to his lips. Miranda nodded in understanding, and he drew his pistol, leaning through the gate as far as he dared, looking hurriedly in both direction.

Finding their way clear, he held out his hand to her. "Nice touch with the shoe," he complimented, helping her to stand. "Where'd you learn a trick like that?"

"Hide and Seek. Two sisters." She pulled off the other shoe, frowning at the steep heel. "I'll not try running in these again."

They slipped through the gate, glancing over their shoulders in case the two bounty hunters returned.

"Good job, luv." he said quietly.

Then, the world went white with a blinding pain to the back of his head. Jack fell against the wall, pistol dropping from suddenly nerveless fingers, while Miranda's terrified voice screamed his name.

"Bitch!" a man's voice snarled. Jack heard a struggle, the crack of a blow, and with a sharp cry, the sound of a small body hitting the ground.

"Your little slut is next, Sparrow!" the voice went on while he shook his head to clear it.

The movement made him wish he hadn't. Jack felt as though his head were trying to explode from his shoulders, and his stomach churned violently in protest.

"You killed Lonzo."

He blinked hard, and looked up into the bloodied face of Javier Vallasquar.

Or, more precisely, two of him.

The bounty hunter's thick fingers closed around his throat, squeezing hard.

"Lonzo was my friend! Now I kill you, take your ship, and _make_ your people take me to the gold!"

Jack clawed at the massive paw holding him, but his arms held no strength. With another roar, the twin Vallasquars slammed him back against the wall before throwing him to the ground.

The impact jarred him horribly, making him fight back the rising bile in his throat. Though it did have the effect of clearing his vision a bit. Everything was still a swimming blur, but at least there was only one Vallasquar now.

One Vallasquar -- with a heavy wooden beam raised high over his head, a mad light in his eyes as he drew up, ready to strike.

"Jack!"

Miranda's voice came from right beside his ear. At the same time, something cool and solid bumped against the fingers of his out flung hand.

Jack didn't think. He closed his hand around the familiar shape of his flintlock, cocking the hammer as he swung his arm up and around, having no time left to aim.

The sound that followed threatened to finish the job of splitting his poor head in two. He winced, but focused his eyes past the end of the barrel, waiting for the smoke to clear.

Praying that he hadn't missed.

Still upright and snarling, the bludgeon lifted high, Vallasquar's mad eyes blazed down at him.

Then, a line of blood wept from beneath his filthy yellow head scarf, trickling past eyes that were suddenly blank. Without a sound, Vallasquar toppled backwards, hitting ground like a felled tree.

He did not move again.

Jack pulled himself up, head spinning, and with that sickly feeling still churning in his guts.

"Jack?"

Miranda crawled to him, staring fearfully at the bounty hunter's still form. "Is he..."

"Oh, yes. Most definitely, aye." He climbed dizzily to his feet, pain shooting through every part of his body. "You alright, lass? Did he hurt you?"

Miranda rose as well, brushing the dirt from her skirts, and rubbing at her backside.

"Only my pride, I think," was her rueful answer.

Through swimming vision he noticed an angry red mark already visible on her jaw.

"Just your pride, eh?" He traced a finger lightly over the mark. Miranda shivered.

"I've had worse. But someone will have heard that shot."

"Several somebodys," Jack agreed. "Let's go."

They went, but they hadn't made it very far before the cry went up behind them. Vallasquar's men had found their Captain.

"That's done it," he said grimly and urged the Lady to as quick a pace as they dared.

Not far now. Only a short jaunt to another remembered path -- one that would lead straight to the beach, and to the _**Pearl**_. Just a short jaunt...

"This way, men! At the quick-step!"

The sound of many booted feet marching rapidly in unison drew nearer.  
  
.

.

**_A/N:_**Well, this seemed like the best place to end part one of Chapter 18. Just head on over to part two for the thrilling conclusion. My-oh-my... how will they get out of this one? >:) 


	21. Chapter18 Part II

And on we go with the rest of this particular part of the show.

Thanks again to the wonderful Beta reader, who has made sense of senseless punctuations, and ironed out other screaming flaws. What would I do without you, Scarlett?  
  
**

Chapter 18 

**continued...  
  
"This way, men! At the quick-step!"

The sound of many booted feet marching rapidly in unison drew nearer.

"Bloody hell." Miranda said in a groan, stopping in her tracks.

"You might say that, yes." Jack cast about. They were out in the open, and the soldiers could be rounding the corner at any moment.

"Over here," he ordered, pushing her into the confines of a doorway. He pressed his body close to hers, arms encircling her waist. "Play along, luv," he whispered, lowering to rest his forehead against her cheek. "Play along."

She shivered again. Then one arm moved around to his back, the other around his neck.

"Good lass," Jack murmured, pulling her closer. He risked a glance over his shoulder as the marching feet closed in on their shelter, then turned back, meeting her wide, anxious eyes.

She had been very brave through all of this, he reflected. Masking her fear, keeping her head in situations that must have been as foreign to her as her peaceful, privileged estate lift would have been to him.

But now those marvelous, dark fringed eyes were very vulnerable as she stared up at him, and her breath came in rapid, shallow bursts.

"One last touch, I think. For art's sake, of course."

At least, that's what he told her...what he told himself. But were he to be truthful, he would have to admit that it was because she was standing so very close. Held in his arms. Embracing him, while that alluring trace of orange blossoms and sandalwood filled his senses, and it seemed the most natural thing to do...

So he bent his head to hers, and kissed her.

He didn't expect it to last long. He was fully prepared for her indignant protests, and indeed, her arms -- her entire body stiffened. Then she melted against him like ice in a spring thaw, one small hand moving up into his hair, and Jack lost himself entirely when her lips parted beneath his.

Soldiers. Bounty hunters...they all fled from his mind, along with that cynical, sensible voice howling for his attention. Screaming that he was a fool...a damnable fool for doing this _now_, of all times.

He ignored it, as he ignored the flash of fire at the back of his head when her fingers brushed the raging spot where Vallasquar's club had struck him. All he knew was that Miranda was leaning into him, her mouth warm and soft. Welcoming him. Responding to him shyly, tentatively, as though this were something so very new to her.

But, oh yes, responding nonetheless.

Someone was calling to him, hailing him in a short, peremptory fashion. He heard as if from a great distance, and whoever it was, Jack wanted to plant his booted foot right in the interrupter's arse. He wanted to tell them to sod off. To go away, good God! -- Couldn't they see that he was busy? But to do so would mean breaking from her, abandoning that sweet mouth.

Jack growled deep in his throat, tightening his arms around her, and Miranda breathed a tiny sound against his lips. Part sigh, part song, it made his head spin in a way that had nothing to do with the blow he'd suffered there.

Another voice laughed behind him. "Don't bother, Sergeant," it commanded in a good-natured way, "These two wouldn't have heard it if you'd lit off a twelve-pounder in their ears. Check further up."

"Yes Sir!" the first answered, "You heard him, men. Move out." The many bodies marched away.

_You can stop now,_ he informed himself dryly, long after the footsteps had faded._ Get moving, man, before they come back. Before she slaps you into next week. Before you say something stupid and she laughs in your damn fool face. Let go of her, Jack._

I will, I will. Just...give a body a moment... 

He slid his hands up her back and into her hair, knocking her combs free. Closing his fingers in that silky, heavy mass, he deepened his kiss. Wanting to feel, to taste as much of her as he could before she would surely push him away.

She only pushed herself closer, but before his mind could go pleasantly blank again, another unwelcome thought reared up.

_You'll get her killed, Jack. Right along with you. And you'll loose the ****_Pearl_ for good._

The _**Pearl**_...Vallasquar's crew! If they couldn't get to him, they would certainly go for his ship next!

He broke from her, gently as he could, and touched his forehead to her own, breathing as though he'd just run the entire length of the island.

"We have to go, luv."

"I know, I know..."

She was breathing hard too. And was that a note of disappointment in her shaky little voice? Either way, she was trembling from head to foot.

"Is this..." Reluctantly, she withdrew her hand from his hair. "Is this...something we're going to talk about later?"

_Well,_ that inner voice remarked, and rather smugly at that._ Well, well_.

He drew back, gazing down at her, tracing a finger down the side of her face, and over her lips. Her hair was a tumbled mess around her shoulders. There were smudges of dirt on her cheeks and forehead, and a definite bruise starting on her jaw.

He'd yet to see anyone look lovelier.

_Of course, that could just be the blow to your head talking._

Jack's inner voice was getting very much on his nerves.

"To...talk about?" he repeated with a slow smile. "Oh, yes, luv. Most definitely...and I can hardly wait."

Miranda flushed, dropping her eyes demurely, catching up her lower lip between her teeth in a way he found oddly appealing.

"But the best place for that would be anywhere but here," he went on, stepping back to check the street. "So, if Milady will be so kind as to accompany me, we'll be on our --"

"Jack!" she interrupted with another tremor to her voice. She was looking fearfully at her own hand. Slowly, she turned her palm out so he could see the blood staining it.

"Your head..."

He felt at the knot at the back of his headscarf, then at the fiery, throbbing spot just above it. Both cloth and hair were wet, sticky with blood. This at least would explain the dizziness. Funny how the pain of it had all but vanished while she was in his arm. Now it was coming back in spades, along with that nauseous sensation churning his guts.

"Must remember to duck," he muttered, wiping his bloodied fingers on his clothes, then took up her hand again. "Almost home, luv. Not far now."

Home. The_** Pearl**_. And then, to the open seas where his fine ship could outpace anything under sail.

But as he hurried along the dirt paved road, his diminutive companion matching his stride, even tinier without her shoes, his vision swam anew, and the sick pain in his skull made him want to retch.

Which, of course, made it inevitable that they would be spotted once more.

"There he is!" a familiar voice shouted. The skinny one who'd surprised them before. "That's Jack Sparrow -- the pirate! He's killed Captain Vallasquar!"

"Jack Sparrow?" another exclaimed. Then, "You -- Pirate! Stop now, or we'll cut you down where you stand!"

Jack didn't have to tell her to run. Miranda sprang ahead, practically dragging him in her wake.

"On his heels, Sergeant --bring him down!"

Surely they wouldn't fire on him. Not with a woman this close. For all the soldiers knew, Miranda could be his hostage.

The musket ball that zipped past his ear cured him of that notion almost immediately. No choice. They couldn't stay out in the open.

"Turn!" he barked, pushing her around a corner, throwing himself after her.

Their mad flight ended abruptly a few steps later, leaving Jack blinking up in dismay at the sight now presented him.

He had turned them too soon. He had taken the wrong path, and now their way to the beach was cut off by the old battlements that protected the sea-ward side of the city, and by the idiot landowners that had built their properties right up against it.

"What do we do?" Miranda cried out, sounding near to tears.

Jack could only stare numbly.

Then he smiled. One of the properties must be undergoing some repairs, for there was a network of scaffolding lacing the exterior. Piles of bricks were neatly stacked all around, and several arranged on sturdy wooden pallets.

One such pallet rode high in the air, almost level with the top of the battlements, suspended by thick ropes from the crane and winch at the base of the building.

"We fly." he said, and made for the winch. Taking hold of the played out rope, he turned and extended his hand to her. "But you're going to have to hold on to me."

"What?" She looked up, following the rope in his hand to the pallet high over their heads, and paled.

"Oh, no..." she moaned, stepping back and shaking her head. "Oh, no, no, no, no..."

"Miranda!" he roared, and with a squeak she threw her arms around him, clenching her fists into his coat.

Jack kicked at the winch, knocking the retaining block from the crank as the first of the soldiers rounded the corner, raising their muskets to aim while the rope tautened, and the pallet started its downward plunge.

Her muffled scream came from somewhere in the region of his breastbone as she felt her feet leave the ground. With her face buried in his chest, her arms tightened like steel bands as they flew upward.

Jack had to bite back a few screams himself. His injured shoulder burned as though the entire arm were being pulled from its socket, which made it only slightly less agonizing than the pounding in his head.

What was it with people that they always wanted to split his crown?

The top of the battlements rushed in to view -- and then past. The brick pallet made a horrendous crash when it hit ground, spilling its load in every direction. Jack swung his body out, clinging to the rope while his toes scrambled for a purchase on the edge of the wall, swaying and bending as he fought for balance, struggling with the added weight of the body clinging to his.

Righting himself, he steadied the Lady on her feet, then pulled up the remaining length of uncoiled rope as fast as he could, ducking reflexively as shots whined overhead like angry hornets.

One soldier realized his intent and launched himself after the rope, missing the frayed end by a hair's breadth.

"On my back, luv," Jack said quickly, throwing the line over the sea side of the wall. "Hurry!"

No questions or protests this time. Perhaps she was numb, but in any case Miranda slipped behind him, somehow keeping the presence of mind to not lock her arms around his throat.

"Hang on --" he warned, and lowered himself over the side, feet braced again the sheer face, hand over hand as fast as his aching body would allow.

"Cut it!" one soldier yelled from the other side, "Cut the rope! The fall will do them some damage."

"No! Pull them back up!" said another voice of reason, and the rope jerked in his hands.

Jack looked down. He'd managed nearly half the distance, but it was a long way to the bottom. He moved faster, taking risks and praying that his luck held.

And his grip.

"When I give the word," he began, feeling the line give another lurch, "Let go."

He felt the rapid nod of her head against his back, and her hands shifted in readiness. They were still a fair way from the ground when the soldiers reached their apparent decision. Jack suddenly found himself rising back up the wall.

"Now!"

She voiced a frightened little cry and released him. Jack plummeted after her, feeling an ironic surge of satisfaction at the startled shouts from the soldier's side. His body tumbled end over end in the sand, and came to rest a few feet from where Miranda lay. He sprawled there for a moment, head spinning worse than before, and hurting from more places than he'd believed possible.

Miranda was already struggling to her feet. He made to follow suit, but froze at her ragged gasp. Turning slowly to face what had startled her, he groaned inwardly.

_Of course. Why expect different? _

But he put on his friendliest smile for the benefit of the disreputable looking character that had his pair of pistols leveled at him.

"Rough town," Jack said conversationally. "Never can tell when you might need to make a fast exit, right, luv?"

"Yes..." Miranda agreed weakly. "...never...can...tell..."

She was unable to tear her eyes from the barrel of the gun that swung up to cover her. She would be of no help now, and Jack feared it might be too much to ask that there be just one more loaded flintlock in that satchel of hers.

"Right. Well," He flashed another wide grin at the fellow. "So very sorry to have startled you, but if you'll excuse us..."

He tried to stand again, but both pistols moved to cover him, and he subsided, slowly raising his hands.

"I don't think so, Sparrow," he was coolly informed. "Captain Javier be a very happy man to see you. Think we'll all just wait for him here." Watery blue eyes narrowed dangerously. "Said we wasn't to kill you, but I don't think he mind if I was to shoot out your knee if you try and run."

"Wouldn't dream of it," Jack said in injured tones, doing his level best to appear harmless.

Which at this point wasn't far from true.

"And I have no doubt that your good Captain would be very happy to see me."

Come to think of it, right about now, Javier Vallasquar would probably be ecstatic to see just about anybody. For some reason, Jack didn't feel it necessary to explain this to the late bounty hunter's very well armed crewman.

A flash of movement beyond the gunman caught his eye, and set him to talking very quickly. Anything that popped into his head that would keep attention fixed firmly upon himself, so as not to notice the dark, lithe figure that crept up behind.

"We'll just wait for him here, eh? Wouldn't do to miss him. And besides -- a man would have to be a fool to try anything against so well prepared a gentleman such as yourself."

Aye. A_ man _would have to be a _fool_. Thankfully, his First Mate was neither.

Jack almost had to pity the fellow. Before he had a chance to realize anything was amiss, AnaMaria had introduced the butt of her pistol to the back of his head. He scarcely had time to see his own hat fall to the ground, when he was on his way to join it.

AnaMaria checked her handiwork, nudging the man with her toe, then helping herself to his fine pair of firearms, uncocking them carefully and shoving them into her belt.

"Couldn't stay out of mischief, could you?" she scolded, glowering down at Jack.

Jack was mildly offended by this. He hadn't exactly gone looking for trouble. He_ never _went looking for it. It had just...found him.

"Never mind that now." Miranda knelt in the sand beside him, grabbing at his arm, "Ani -- he's hurt!"

_Ah-nee?_ he wondered briefly, but waved a hand at the girl's sudden concern.

"It'll keep. Where are the men?"

"By now, back to the ship," AnaMaria held out her hand, and Jack had to admit that without the two of them he'd have had a hard time getting to his feet.

"Knew you were coming when I heard all that gunfire," she went on, falling in beside him. "But didn't know where you'd come out until that scurvy maggot back there made his move. So I followed him."

She peered hard into his face. "You don't look so good. Sure your alright -- and who were those men? _She_ wouldn't let me stay and fight."

This was said with some bitterness, and with a curt nod to Miranda.

The Lady said nothing, and Jack's account of his misadventure kept him talking almost all the way back to the boat. He didn't mind. It helped focus his foggy brain. Something that was becoming difficult now that he'd calmed a bit from all the excitement.

Hugging the edge of the coastline, the_** Black Pearl**_ still rode at anchor, turned about by the tide. Jack squinted, but was unable to see any activity on deck, his vision having blurred on him again.

"Are they ready for us?" he asked, and the First Mate gave him another hard look.

"I can see them at the capstan," she reported. "And the rest are aloft."

Good. Ready to raise anchor and let out sail at a moment's notice. And even better, perched on the last of the _Pearl'_s jolly boats, someone was already waiting to take word back.

"Mr. Cotton's Parrot, tell them to make ready!"

"Weigh anchor, hoist the Mainsail!" the macaw shrilled, taking to the air, and repeating the call twice more before its voice was drowned by the sound of the surf.

Jack threw his weight at the boat, pushing it back into the waves. On either side the ladies added their efforts to his, then each took up a pair of oars right along with him.

The tide was not with them. The waves frustrated their efforts at speed, and before long, the burning in Jack's shoulder was almost beyond his ability to bear.

His shoulder, his head, his jaw, stomach, ribs...in short, there wasn't much that didn't hurt, as far as he could tell.

And he was so tired now...tired, and still fighting that sickly dizziness that he didn't want to fight anymore. He wanted to rest. To lay down, and sleep, and forget about the pain for a while.

Just for a little while...

He swayed in his seat, hands faltering at the oars.

"Jack!" Miranda called behind him, voiced strained from her rowing. "Jack, you've got to stay awake!"

He turned to face her. She sounded...strange -- like she was calling from a great distance.

"Do you hear me, Jack? You can't let...self...have...stay..."

Her voice faded, drowned out by the rushing in his ears. Now, he could only see her lips working, forming words that he couldn't understand.

Then, he saw nothing at all.  
  
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_**A/N:**_Ok... so maybe that wasn't the nicest way to end a chapter either. I'm a BAAAAAAAD girl, ain't I? Send all your cards and letters to that lovely little review box at the bottom of the page, and I'll see you soon >)

Yes... I know I'm evil. Review anyway! 


	22. Chapter19

Hello again, and welcome!

Wow! I see I've picked up a few new people. Greetings, and thank you for your words of encouragement!

Anno Mundi: Goodness! Almost the whole story to date in one sitting. Now that's staying power! LOL! And a soggy pirate isn't really the worst thing in the world, is it? )

Clueless Patty: LOL! Love the name! Funny thing... I once toyed with the idea of going by the handle of "Big Fat Ugly Bug-Faced Baby Eating O'Brian", but realized that "Outlaw Jack's Bonny Lass" was probably difficult enough. And if any of the rest of you out there can catch THAT reference, I'll be impressed!

Littera: LOL! Thanks! But he didn't faint on deck, though. He fainted in the longboat. I know... semantics, semantics. ;)Savvy-Rum-Drinker, AJ-Sparrow, Dreamgirl21147, and Velly: Howdy! Yes, I'll admit that I'm quite evil. >:) It's my way. And I'm very flattered to have you all so hooked by this! Here's the next chapter so you won't have to suffer the suspense!

Michiru: Bad? Moi? LOL! Yep, that would be me. (Blush...) Glad you liked the kissing scene. Tons of fun writing THAT chapter, I can tell you! Hope this one meets with your approval as well. If not, then BOY am I gonna hear about it! (Eeeek! runs and hides from the wrath of the "Phan" girl) LOL!

Complete Opposites: Glad to still have you along -- both (?) of you!

As always, PLEASE review! That's what keeps me going.

Well... that, and a TON of caffine, but at any rate -- on with the show! Gee... I'm on a new computer right now, and it doesn't want to show me a preview of how this page will look. Hope it's all in order, or this'll be a real short upload. Ah well... keeps fingers crossed, and heads for chapter manager...

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Chapter 19

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Elizabeth Turner was in a pensive mood this afternoon. Pacing restlessly in the small parlor, fingertips drumming on every surface she passed, she glanced once more at the little, ornate clock on the mantle. She had done this many times since Lieutenant Nilsen had departed her home not more than an hour earlier.

"I realize that you and your husband have a... special relationship with Mr. Sparrow," Nilsen had said carefully. Elizabeth had to school herself to not bristle at the insinuation buried beneath the civil words, "You wish to protect him again, but for his sake -- and that of the Countess -- I hope you've left nothing out." His attendant, Doddson, had been on hand, scratching down every word that was said into his neat logbook, his ever present pen a blur across the ivory pages.

No use in denying that Jack Sparrow had been here. Too many witnesses had seen the Lady Warringford and her unknown gentleman companion travel to this house in Will's company.

"Nothing, Lieutenant," she'd replied, "Only that it was his intent to get her to safety. If he had further plans, he didn't feel the need to share them with my husband or myself."

His barely disguised skepticism had nearly set her temper flaring anew.

"I know you don't approve of me, Lieutenant. I accept that. But it doesn't change the fact that I'm giving you the truth."

She could tell by his expression that she'd surprised him.

"I had been warned about how perceptive you are." Nilsen admitted, shaking his head. "Forgive me. It's not for me to approve or disapprove of your choices."

It certainly was not. Especially when her father, the Governor of this island, had given his blessing. Elizabeth hadn't said this aloud, but could tell that the Lieutenant had these thoughts on his mind.

He took his leave then, after giving her his assurance that there was virtually no chance that whomever had ordered the attack on the Countess' home would be sending more men to this part of the island.

Of that she had no doubt. There would be no further attacks, because Dunnthorpe -- according to Nilsen's own words -- was already aware that Miranda had given him the slip.

The incident had left its mark on their little corner of the world. The whole of Jamaica seemed to grow a bit tenser. Now, several plantation owners insisted on their groundsmen carrying arms. Her father, perhaps still shaken by the events of more than two years ago, had been particularly distressed by the attack on Warringford Manor. Even though the attackers themselves had been wiped out to a man, it had taken nearly all of her considerable powers of persuasion to convince him that she and Will were in no need of a guard posted at their home, and that the soldier's time would surely best be served elsewhere.

Will had not resented the implication that he was incapable of protecting her. Now of all times, he could appreciate a father's concerns. But he had gotten that steely-eyed look, and the next day, a brand new pair of pistols had found their way into the drawer of her night table. Each night before retiring to their bedroom, he would check and recheck each door and shutter's lock.

Elizabeth paused before the window, resting her hands on the sill and peering up the road. It was still far too early in the day for Will to leave his forge, but she had an almost overwhelming need to see him just then. She wondered if Lieutenant Nilsen had stopped to question him before coming to call here. It would be in the man's mind set to interview them separately, she thought, and wondered if he'd been more forthcoming with Will than with herself.

A tremor ran through her limbs. There was one bit of information that she hadn't passed on. Not to Nilsen, and not even to Will.

She'd stood at this very window two mornings after Jack and the Lady Warringford had departed, looking out over the garden path that led to the road, when a covered coach had pulled up.

The man that descended from that coach had immediately set her skin to prickling. He strode to her gate, moving with an air of disdain, As though in contempt of the very ground beneath his elegantly booted feet. Impeccably outfitted in the finest Italian fashion, he rested one gloved hand on the fence post. The other hand remained stiffly at his side.

It was the face that had arrested her attention, however; impassive and implacable. Neither young nor old, and still as stone. In fact, so much so, that Elizabeth was strongly reminded of the marble statuary from the ancient world that her father's friends had standing about in their gardens back in England. The same finely cut features, the same proud air... the same stillness.

Then, beneath the wide brim of his hat, his eyes had lifted to the house, and Elizabeth had sucked in a breath.

Flat, gray, and cold, they were the most soulless eyes she'd ever beheld. Eyes that had espied things that she immediately knew she wanted no part of.

Eyes that she couldn't even remotely call human.

In that instant the figure at her gate ceased to be 'him' in her view. She could only think of this visitor as 'it'.

The eyes swept up to her window. She felt a shock like icy water as they met briefly with her own, and had to fight the urge to run and hide like a child.

Then, it looked away, scanning the length of the facade with unhurried ease.

Elizabeth shivered again at the memory. She didn't have the impression that it hadn't noticed her standing there. Rather, she felt as though it had seen her, but dismissed her as unimportant -- as she would dismiss a gnat -- and moved on.

The dreadful eyes closed, and it stood in the posture of someone listening intently. The hand that hung so still at its side lifted; immobile, yet reaching out. How long it stood there, gloved hand extended, she couldn't tell. Only that after a time the creature gave a slight shake of its head, like shooing away a fly, and the stiff hand dropped to its side.

When the grey eyes opened again, they were no longer lifeless. Rather, a rage, ancient and ravenous, burned within them. A rage that was almost a palpable thing seething in the very air. Elizabeth had backed away from the window than, hands flying to cover her abdomen.

She heard it snap a few words in a low silky voice, and though she didn't recognize the language, every hair on the back of her neck seemed to rise.

By the time she could convince herself to look again, the creature had already vanished into its departing coach.

Even all these days later, Elizabeth couldn't help but be chilled by the memory. Though she had no tangible proof, more than ever she was convinced that this creature was the true danger to Miranda Warringford. Far more than the oft-rumored brutality of her former husband.

Now, by extension, the danger had broadened to include a man who, though she still couldn't bring herself to fully trust; was still considered a valuable friend. Someone who, in his own strange, irrepressible way, was the person singularly responsible for her current happiness.

"_I saved your life, you saved mine_," he'd said the day he had plucked her from the waters. _"We're square._"

Not quite. How many times had he then stepped in when all seemed lost for herself and Will during those terrible days?

Elizabeth sighed and turned from the window. Another glance at the gilded little clock -- one of her father's wedding gifts -- proved that only mere minutes had passed while she'd been lost in her troubled thoughts. She moved about the parlor, as restless as before. Brushing nonexistent dust from this table, straightening an already perfectly placed vase of flowers on another.

In short, trying without much success to distract herself.

She stopped herself when her hands toyed uselessly with the elegant silver tea service arranged on the equally handsome tray.

Elizabeth couldn't help but smile. This had been another wedding gift, one that even her father had admired. But no outward note had indicated the sender. Not until she'd uncovered the cunning sugar bowl had she and Will discovered a hastily scrawled note written in a bold, slanted hand.

"_To Bootstrap's son, and his Bonny Lass."_

And the signature beneath: "_J.S._"

Folded along with the scrap of parchment was a slip from a known silversmith from Honduras.

A receipt clearly marked: "Paid in full".

"Be careful, Jack," she said softly, eyes threatening to fill with unshed tears. "We still owe you a life, don't you dare go and get yourself killed before we have our chance to repay the debt."

Her heart gave a jump when she heard the sound of slow hoof beats approach the gate, recognizing the familiar pace of Will's placid bay mare, Sophie. The life growing beneath her heart moved in response, and with a soft cry of relief, she raced from the house, flinging herself joyfully into her husband's arms.

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Jack awoke with a stench assaulting his nostrils that made his head feel as though the top of that worthy appendage was doing its level best to explode. He tried to raise his arms to drive away the source of the appalling stench, but he found that they were pinned.

Someone was holding him down.

Vallasquar's men! -- had they been ambushed before they could reach the safety of the **_Pearl_**? What had they done with Miranda and AnaMaria? He gathered himself, ready to give the fight of his life.

"He's awake," Miranda's voice announced, shaking with emotion. "You can let go of him now."

Relieved, Jack went limp, and the pressure left his arms. He wiped at eyes that streamed from that horrible, acrid smell, then carefully looked around.

He was back on his ship. In his bed in his own cabin, while Gibbs and the surgeon, 'Rat' Vinccense stared back with evident happiness. Miranda stood just behind them, pale with concern, and hair braided messily over her shoulder. There was a small vile in her hands that she quickly sealed.

"God's Wounds, woman," Jack growled, rubbing again at his face. That stench still clawed at his nostrils. "Are you trying to kill me now? What in hell was that?"

She smiled, worried lines easing from her brow.

"Smelling salts. We couldn't wake you, and it was all I had left to try."

Smelling salts -- _this_ was what they used to revive fainting women?

"That stuff would wake the dead," he grumbled wearily. He made to sit up, but 'Rat' held out a hand to restrain him.

"You need to stay put for now, Cap'n. From what she tells, that was a bad hit you took."

Jack grunted. He'd taken several, if they must know, but he did as asked.

"It was a nasty blow," Miranda agreed. Gibbs moved aside to give her room at the bedside. She seated herself at the edge of his mattress. "Do you remember how you got here?"

He had to shake his head. "I remember AnaMaria getting us clear of that last... obstacle. I remember the beach, but beyond that --" He passed a hand over his eyes.

"Sorry, darlin'... mind's a blank."

She frowned. "That's not unexpected, I suppose... do you remember who I am?"

He squinted at her. "Well, unless something's changed that you haven't bothered to tell me about, you're still Miranda Warringford, aren't you?"

"Am I?" This was said in a strangled little voice. She bowed her head, shoulders suddenly trembling. For a moment, Jack thought she was crying, but when she raised her face again, it was all too clear that she was having a hard time of keeping her laughter in check. "I thought I was 'Flintlock Fran, the Red Baroness of Dorchett'."

Jack cringed. He knew that would come back to haunt him. "Sorry, luv. It was the only name I could think of."

She continued to laugh silently. He traded a look with Gibbs, and shrugged. For some reason, the Lady seemed to find the strangest things amusing at the oddest of times.

"So what happened when we --"

Jack broke off, hearing a sound that no seaman liked to be on the recieving end of.

"Who's firing on us?" he demanded, struggling to sit up despite the Lady's efforts to stop him. "Is it Vallasquar's ship? Are we hit, man?"

"Easy, Jack...No shots've come anywhere near us," Gibbs assured. "An' that's a Spanish Man-O'-War yer hearin'. Rounded the coast, saw us makin' a run fer it, and tried luffin' up on us. AnaMaria showed 'em our tail, and..." He made a quick lunging motion with his hand. "An' just t' make sure they didn't get no ideas about followin', our Mr. Bottoms gave 'em somethin' else to think on," He gave Jack a fierce grin. "Cut down their foremast in one shot."

Another distant salvo thundered out, as ineffective as the last. Jack still tensed until he heard the rounds splash harmlessly into the sea.

"They're still firing on us."

"Aye, but it's more fer spite than anythin' else. Don't you get yerself all worked up, there's no way they'll reach us now. Might just have t' up that boy's share if he keeps makin' shots like that -- which reminds me," Gibbs bent, reaching for the deck. "Young Sam picked this up when we ran for it. He thought ye might be missin' it."

When Gibbs straightened, it was with a familiar, battered, brown leather shape in his hands. Jack blinked slowly, reaching to accept his hat. When he could bring himself to speak, there was a strange tightness in his throat.

"He's a good lad," Jack managed gruffly.

"Aye, that he is."

The Quartermaster rose, clearing his throat and shuffling nervously. "I'll tell him ye said so, Jack. You just... just listen to these two, n' git yerself back on yer feet."

Gibbs crossed to the door, promising to report later if anything new arose.

Jack had to wonder if his gratitude had embarrassed the old dog and driven him out.

Well... what else did these people expect when they insisted on surprising him like this?

Soon he fervently wished he'd had the strength to follow Joshamee. With a steely glint in her eyes, Miranda began issuing orders -- Vinccense to help him remove his bloodied garments, the headscarf coming off next, himself to remain perfectly still as the two examined his cuts and bruises. And then came the task of enduring the cleaning of his wounds, and the application of some odd smelling unguent that stung bitterly at first contact, then made his injuries go blissfully numb.

At least, numb until she and Rat started sewing him back together.

"Ouch! You're a cruel woman, Lady. Can't you at least let me have a pull from that bottle over there? This bloody well hurts!"

"No rum for you now, Captain," she said crisply, tying off another knot. "Not with a head injury."

"What does that have to do with -- _Oww!_ Damn it, woman--"

"Oh, do be still!" Miranda snapped. "If you'd stop fidgeting, I could be done already." She glanced at him from under knitted brows. "And with the dreadful time we had reviving you, I don't need your brains fogged by drink. Do you know what a concussion is?"

He stared at her, feeling suddenly cold. She nodded and returned her attention to his shoulder.

"Then you can understand the concern, I trust. Try thinking on something else, it'll take your mind off of it. Tell me -- were you able to find this Gorsse fellow you wanted me to meet with?"

Jack bit off a curse. He'd forgotten the whole reason behind this botched landing.

"No, he wasn't there. He's not been there in months, he's... I need to tell Joshamee. We have to set course for Tortuga."

"I'll let him know, Cap'n," offered Rat, hovering over Jack's shoulder. "She's got this in hand, and I should check up on Crimp. "Took a spill off the foresail," he explained at Jack's questioning look. "Cut himself a good one, and hurt his leg pretty bad."

"Take that with you," Miranda pointed her needle at the unguent jar. "You've seen how it's used, take as much as you need."

He thanked her, disappearing quickly with the jar.

Miranda finished her small stitching, and daubed a thin, greenish paste from another jar over the wound.

"You're a very lucky man, Captain Sparrow," she observed. "That brute kept his knife clean as well as sharp. This should heal nicely if you don't overuse it.

"And Mr. Vinccense only had to make four stitches to your head." She unrolled a length of fine, gauzy, bleached cotton. "I'd like you to keep these covered for a few days. Just to be safe."

"Mm-hmm." He held out his arm as she wrapped his shoulder, reaching up to feel the new bandage that had replaced his blood soaked bandana.

"Hurts," he complained softly, more tired than he'd ever felt in his life.

"I know." Her voice was sympathetic. "I'm sorry, Captain, but if I give you anything to dull the pain, I might not be able to wake you from it.

"And I will have to wake you...if you think you could manage to nod off for a few hours?"

"I don't think there's a problem there, luv. Feel like I can't keep my eyes open as it is." His voice sounded thick, slurry to even his own ears. He wanted so much to sink back into his pillows, but... he'd known men hit the way he had. He'd seen them laying in surgeon's holds, still as corpses until they became corpses themselves.

"You'll stay, won't you, luv? You'll see to it I wake up again?"

Her brows arched in surprise.

"Of course, Captain." This she said as though it were a given. "You've no need to even ask." She tied off the ends of his bandage, straightening to view her handiwork.

Captain...He was back to formalities in her mind.

"Do I have to be bleeding to death, or you frightened half witless before you remember that I have a name?" Jack leaned into his pillows, knowing that he sounded like a sulky child, but too exhausted to care.

Miranda made no reply. Indeed, she was suddenly unable to meet his eyes, and her small hands worked nervously, brushing unnecessarily at the folds of her skirt.

"Look at me, Lady."

She did so, reluctantly, and only briefly. Her face was guarded, but not enough to successfully hide her anxiety.

"Come on, luv," he said, and smiled a smile meant to charm. "Humor a poor, wounded soul. I do have a name... let me hear you say it."

"Captain, I --"

"It's not much of a name, I know. Common, I suppose you'd say. Uncultured. Declasse'.

"Supposed to be short for Jonathan, you know. Though I wouldn't think to answer to that even if you called it, but --"

Miranda raised her eyes. Eyes the deep, gentle color of leaves, and of every good, green growing thing.

"It's a fine name..." she said softly, "...Jack."

"There, you see? Not so bad, was it?" He shifted uneasily in his bed, looking for a position comfortable enough to stay in. There didn't seem to be one just then, so he settled for remaining on his back, closing his eyes and letting out his breath in a long sigh.

Miranda took his wrist in her fingers. 'Listening' to his heart, he remembered.

Jack recalled something else then, too.

"Here," he said drowsily, and captured her hand in his own. He pressed her palm to his breast. "This is easier."

She was silent for a long time, fingers warm and still against his skin.

"Yes," she agreed finally in a voice barely above a whisper, "Yes, I suppose it is."

"Told you." he heard himself slur. Jack groaned and felt at his forehead, then pressed his fingers into his eyelids, as if this could somehow relieve the terrible throbbing behind them. Beside him the Lady stirred. He could hear the rustle of her skirts as she positioned herself once more at the edge of his worn mattress.

Just his luck, Jack thought, to have this woman right here and all to himself. In his cabin, in his very bed -- and be forced to miss this most opportune moment.

He felt a brush at his hair. The sensation of her hand moving lightly over his scalp, smoothing back errant strands. Stroking at his forehead. Even through the bandage, it was delightful. Her gentle actions soothed the raging ache in his skull, and he relaxed under this most pleasant ministration, sinking deeper into his bedding, feeling his tired muscles slowly unclench.

Well... most of them, at any rate. Her touch had another effect on his body. One that she was no doubt unaware of. One that he was certainly unable to act upon just now, but neither was he inclined to stop her. Not when she was bringing such blissful relief to his battered self.

"...Feels nice..." he murmured. "Ah, Miranda -- you're a bonny lass for being so kind to an old dog..."

At least, that's what he thought he said. His tongue felt so heavy, he wasn't sure he was even intelligible.

He wanted to give her some sign, though. Some show of appreciation for her graciousness.

Remembering that he still held her hand to his heart, he brought that hand to his lips, and pressed a kiss into her palm.

The fingers in his hair stilled. He was sure he heard her breath catch, and then something soft and warm brushed over his cheek. Once more he caught that hint of the fragrance of her hair, and knew that it was the touch of her lips he'd felt.

How kind of her...how very kind...

"Sleep, Jack," Miranda whispered, her voice low and soothing. "I'm here... sleep." Her fingers resumed their magical work on his poor head.

Sleep? Suddenly, sleep was the last thing Jack wanted. Not when the Lady was obviously feeling so amiable towards him. He wanted to draw her down beside him. To take her in his arms, and at last begin all of those 'conversations' they'd teased each other with, but his arms felt weighty as lead. The same lead that held his eyelids shut while fatigue settled over him like a heavy blanket. He only had strength enough to squeeze her hand once before it utterly claimed him.

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Miranda remained at his side, one hand still clasped in his while she stroked his hair. Even though his breathing had long since deepened into the measured steadiness of sleep, and her back ached in protest of the awkward way she was seated, she still couldn't bring herself to move.

In the fading light, she watched over him. Watched the rise and fall of his chest. Counted the angry bruising of his face and body.

She felt a new wave of tenderness as his lax fingers curled ever-so-slightly around hers, as if she were his very lifeline.

Felt that wave die in the cold space that opened in the pit of her stomach when her eyes lighted on the smooth, pale scar of the brand mark peering out from beneath his frayed, colorful wrist cuff.

As she stared, Miranda knew again that same conflicted emotions that had been with her ever since her decision to accept the aid of this man. This... pirate.

Yes, pirate -- for that's what he was, after all.

Had he ever claimed or pretended otherwise?

Boiled down to its most basic essence, this man -- no matter how fascinating, how compelling to her obviously weak and rebellious nature -- was, at heart, a criminal.

A particularly intelligent one, at that. Miranda had studied him carefully in the near fortnight since the moment he'd forced his way across her threshold. Had observed, and learned. His swaying, flapping ways were merely a ruse. An act to lull another into believing him a fool, when the reality was he possessed a mind capable of dangerous cunning.

Cunning -- and a dangerous charm. One that he could release out of nowhere to devastating effect. She'd been on the receiving end of this last many times since that night. It helped her determination to resist when she considered how many had surely succumbed to that charm.

That large pendant dangling from his hair had certainly belonged to one of these. She recognized it from her many travels. Women of the Arabian people often wore a multitude of them as symbols of their prosperity. And didn't he mention days ago that acquiring it had nearly gotten him castrated?

She suspected his conquests in the boudoir most likely rivaled even his triumphs at sea. And heavens! -- He even wore the name of one of these conquests etched into his very flesh! Her hand, still caught up in his, rested just below the ornately lettered 'Lily-Rose' permanently inked over his heart.

Embarrassment flooded through her, bringing a rush of heat to her face.

She knew better... knew what manner of man he was, and still felt herself drawn to him.

_Look at me -- seated on his bed, stroking at his hair like... like a lover!_

Miranda freed her hand from his and stood, stretching the kinks from her aching back. Through the paned transom window she could see the overcast skies darkening into twilight, and the first raindrops rolling slowly down the glass. Night was approaching, along with Mr. Cotton's promised rain. She selected a candle, leaning out into the Great Cabin to light it from a nearby lantern, and moved about the room, setting more lamps and candles to burning in the small confines.

From above she heard the muffled ringing of the ship's bell. When the watch sounded four more times, she would try to wake him.

She caught a glimpse of herself then, reflected in his mirror.

Miranda winced. Who was this dirt smudged, bedraggled creature looking back at her? Dismayed, she took in the sight of herself. Her hair hung in lank, wispy strands around her face, curling in the humidity where it had escaped her untidy braid. She fetched a cloth, dipping an edge into the pitcher of clean water to daub the dirt from her face. Not much she could do about the darkening bruise that leering brute, Vallasquar had left on her.

She cleansed it carefully, grateful that the wretch hadn't broken her skin, and spread some of her cajeput balm over her jaw. With any luck at all, in a few days the bruise would fade.

But then, she'd always been a fast healer. The Lord knew her life with Edward Dunnthorpe had proven this true.

Without a brush or comb, her hair was a hopeless cause. Miranda indulged herself in glaring over her shoulder at the sleeping man.

He continually insisted upon removing her combs. Did the man have no concept of how long it would take to get all the tangling out?

Of course not -- look at how he treated his own hair.

She had to settle for smoothing it into some semblance of order, but what she truly wanted was a bath, and sleep. In that order.

No... no, that wasn't it. What she deeply, desperately wanted now was to go home. To be back in her own familiar surrounding, among her own people.

Safe from dark eyes that made her burn when they looked at her. Safe from a mouth who's merest brush left her heart pounding, and head spinning so terribly that she feared she'd faint.

Why did he have to do that? she wondered with another glare to the bed's occupant. Why did he have to kiss her like _that_

It had only been a ruse to trick the soldiers. "For art's sake", he'd said, but... did he have to behave as though it had truly mattered to him? That it had torn him as much as it had her when he'd pulled away?

Edward Dunnthorpe's kisses could hardly be called such. They were painful, and possessive, as he always was.

Phillip Shaw's courtship, by contrast, could only be called proper.

Proper -- and dull. His family, a successful, but untitled shipping family, had encouraged the union, and she'd been trusting enough to accept his polished wooing.

Neither man awoke in her the reactions that this criminal's touch could. Neither man had ever kissed her like _that_. And neither man had ever, ever left her with the impression that, given a choice, he could go on in like manner until the very world ended.

After all, she thought with another critical look to her reflection, what was there to get excited over? She was not beautiful. Not in the serene way her mother had been beautiful.

Not in the way her sisters still were. Their ivory skinned, red-gold tressed splendor glowed and sparkled like fine gems, while she'd always been self-conscious of the almost olive tint to her complexion, and the dark, dark red of her hair. Their eyes were the cornflower blue of the rarest of summer skies.

Hers were... not.

And, she thought with a touch of bitterness, both had lives so far beyond the one she knew. Elisse, the eldest, had married the son of a prince of Prussia. A man far older than she, but a decent enough individual, nonetheless. Their union was steady, though not marked by the same tenderness that their parents had always displayed.

Eleanor had been the fortunate one. Miranda's younger sister had married a youth from a minor noble house. That young man had quite lost his heart at first sight of his bride, and had doted slavishly upon her ever since. To his eternal delight and seemingly continued astonishment, his feelings were returned with equal measure. The two were blessed with a hoard of lovely, happy offspring.

With the urgings of his late Majesty, George I, Miranda had been chosen for Edward. The unfairness of it all came crashing down on her again at that moment. That her marriage would be an arranged one was simply a matter of course. All of the women -- and men -- of her family had their spouses selected for them. It was a byproduct of title and wealth, and something to be accepted with all due grace.

But... she had married Edward Dunnthorpe, the Baron of Laevan, and it had cost the life of the only child she would ever be able to bear -- had very nearly cost her her own life. She had fled from Edward, and it had forever damaged her reputation.

Oh, she'd had callers. Men of rank and status presenting themselves at her door in the time after her divorce was finalized. Men circling her like vultures over a carcass. Miranda remembered with sharp exactness the sick swoop of outrage she'd felt upon realizing that these men were not only ones who had publicly denounced her as a loose moraled trollop (for wasn't that what any woman who dared desert her lord and husband must be, no matter the circumstances?), but were themselves married. Many to women she'd thought were friends.. until they began to shun her on the streets, began too not reply to her letters, and cut her off dead at gathering, or "forgot" to invite her at all.

It had only worsened when first her mother, then her father had passed away. Then came the suitors who'd flattered the new "Dowager" Countess outrageously with one breath, and with the very next made smooth-tongued inquiries as to when she would come into her inheritance.

She could count Phillip Shaw among the last of this group. He'd caught her at a time when she'd been vulnerable, and his urbane words had never devolved into the abject fawning she had come to find so repellent.

He'd quite managed to turn her head, and when his proposal had finally come, she'd spent extravagantly on lavish gifts of clothing and ornamentation to present him with at their wedding.

Then had come the discovery of his faithlessness...the bitter learning that his ardor was only for the sake of allying his family to hers, with the sure knowledge that when their vows were spoken, all that belonged to her would legally pass into his control.

Miranda felt that surely by now, there were no illusions left in her. She was hardly a girl anymore; well past her thirtieth year, she had long since resigned herself to a life of solitude, and to the study of the healing arts that so fascinated her.

What manner of man would want a woman such as she -- old, used, and barren? What man would look upon her with desire? Not for her title, or her holdings, but for herself alone?

Then, she remembered that mad, breathtaking day up on the mizenmast of this vessel, urged on by the man who slept behind her. Recalled in aching clarity the way he'd smiled at her that day; not with his usual impudence, or in a way meant to entice, but as though he'd found in her a friend.

She counted again the already numerous occasions where a man of his reputed ilk could have easily forced her into a situation where she would have been helpless to stop him -- but he had not.

The fury in his eyes when he'd burst into her parlor, staring at Edward as though he wanted to kill him.

The pain in his eyes when he thought she didn't trust him.

And... that kiss. His kiss.

The kiss of a pirate.

_What manner of man indeed?_ that treacherous little voice whispered in her mind now. _Turn around, Miranda. Turn around._

Miranda blinked back tears. Felt her breath catch in a sob within her throat.

If she turned, if she looked back now, she would be lost.

But turn she did.

He lay as she'd left him. On his back, with one hand resting over his heart. There was a faint line of pain between the dark wings of his brows that she longed to smooth away.

He frowned in his sleep, and moaned a faint sound of discomfort, rolling away from her onto his uninjured shoulder.

Quietly, she drew nearer. Pulled almost against her will to stand over him. On his bared back and shoulders, a crossed network of old whip scars stood out whitely against the tanned darkness of his skin.

Were some of these the remnants of the scourging he had received when they were children?

What of all these others -- punishment for crimes committed, or something dealt to him on the vicious whim of one of the many sadistic ship's masters whose cruelties regrettably remained unchecked?

More evidence of old brutalities stood out to her now. A palm sized mark that had surely been caused by a burn just beneath his shoulder blade. A livid, red weal that neatly bisected the pallor of the scourge marks near the waist band of his britches. And yet another angry, dark bullet mark at his side, barely clear of his ribcage.

So much violence. So much pain. How had one man managed to survive all of this?

Miranda couldn't stop herself. Her hand reached out of it's own accord, fingertips moving lightly over his skin, feeling the ridges of his many scars blend with the smoothness of his unmarked flesh.

Feeling all over again the burning, fluttering wave that spread through every part of her body, and the sudden rapidness of her heartbeat that sent a rushing sound through her ears.

He stirred beneath her touch, and with a guilty start, Miranda snatched her hand away.

But the damage had been done.

"Miri..?"

The drowsy uttering sent a bolt right through her rebellious heart. And when he began to turn towards her, it was an effort to keep her voice calm and level.

"It's alright, Jack. Go back to sleep. I'm here."

He stilled, then relaxed with a sigh, and was quiet for so long a time, that Miranda was sure he'd drifted off again.

Then, the corner of his lips curled into a faint smile.

"You _did_ stay," he murmured with a kind of wonder, and Miranda's eyes filled again. Soon, his breathing deepened, and she knew his sleep was real.

She caught herself reaching for him once more, and instead, dashed the tears from her eyes, and wrapped her arms tightly around herself.

She had turned, and she was lost. Miranda knew this as surely as she knew that the watch bell had just sounded the new hour. As surely as she could hear the pattering of raindrops on the window pane, and the low creaking of the hull.

He had won. He had slipped neatly through every one of her carefully constructed defenses, and she'd been helpless to prevent it.

What could be left for her now?

Retreating, she sank slowly into a chair, with all of the fatigue of this day settling down onto her shoulders.

He had won. She was lost.

Another irony in a life that as of late seemed filled with nothing else.

But who could have possibly foreseen this? That the most renowned scoundrel in these waters, one who had participated in all reported manner of debaucheries, would be the one to treat her with more consideration... with more kindness, than the most refined of the upper echelons? To be the one to treat her as a person, and not a possession?

How long would that last, she wondered, if she did succumb -- if he knew that he had won.

Barely a fortnight had brought her to this. Not even a full two weeks in the company of this swaggering, irreverent, and oh-so-charming outlaw. Her handsome cabin boy of old.

Her swarthy, magnificent savior with the sparkling, mysterious eyes, and devastating smile.

What would another fortnight in his company bring?

When would he no longer be satisfied with mere words, subtle innuendoes, and stolen kisses, no matter how breathtaking? When would she -- in spite of knowing the pain it would bring to her body and spirit?

Because she had turned. Because she had looked back.

Miranda straightened, sniffling loudly in the quiet cabin, and wiped hard at her dampened face.

She was lost. He had won...

...But he didn't need to know that.

.

.

.

**_A/N:_**, Another day, another upload. Please leave all comments or complaints with the lovely little box at the bottom left of the screen. 


	23. Chapter 20

Fondest greetings to you all. Terribly sorry that it's been so long since I last updated. Real life abruptly became more... complicated. But enough about me -- it's all about the story, right? Right? Thanks for keeping the faith, people. I hope this latest offering is to your liking. And as always, none of the established characters belong to me. Please R&R.

**

Chapter 20

**

The hour was late, but Commodore James Norrington still occupied his seat behind his heavy, ornately carved desk. Carefully closing the cover of the neatly penned log book before him, he sighed and leaned back into a chair that had been built more for a sense of imposing solidity than for comfort.

Pinching the bridge of his nose between thumb and forefinger, Norrington reflected on the events of this day, and upon the probable success of the young man who had departed this office only hours ago.

Feeling suddenly restless, he rose, moving to the small fireplace to stir the flames upon the grate.

Lieutenant Nilsen's investigation was as thorough as had could make it. Having read the report not once, but many times, Norrington was convinced that the younger man was carrying out his duties in a most admirable manner.

Unfortunately, the Lieutenant had met with several unexpected obstacles along the way. Not the least of these being his own commanding officer, Captain Fredrick Gillette. A man whom, in Norrington's private opinion, was not yet ready for the exalted rank that had been bestowed upon him.

Once a promising and motivated young officer, Gillette was displaying every sign of becoming the kind of man the Commodore had always detested; a swaggering, self-important martinet overly secure in his own position. One to be feared and avoided more than respected.

However, Gillette's family was well connected, and those same connections that tied him to the so-called 'nobler' subjects of the Crown were the same that had encouraged the Office of the High Admiralty to elevate him to the rank of Captain.

Norrington had not approved of this elevation, but then, politics were rarely fair in these matters. The Commodore was wise enough to recognize that fact.

Still, it galled him that a more deserving officer like Lieutenant Leland Nilsen had been overlooked.

This afternoon, he'd decided to do something to rectify that.

The **_Belerophon_**, a third class frigate, had sailed into port only days ago. Her Captain was leaving his current post to board a vessel headed for the Channel. The French had been rattling their sabers as of late, and many were being recalled to serve much closer to home.

This left the **_Belerophon_**, in port for provisioning and the repair and replacement of two of her nine pounders; without an assignment, or a commanding officer.

This would soon change.

"I find it disturbing," Nilsen had admitted with a frown. "That a woman of the Countess' status and reputed intelligence would sooner trust a pirate than enlist our aid for her protection.

"But then," he went on, face stony. "Captain Gillette had any number of unflattering things to say on the subject of the Lady. And upon learning that his friend, Lord Dunnthorpe, was most likely involved in the attack on her home, the Captain strongly..." Nilsen wrinkled his nose in distaste. "...Encouraged me to pursue other avenues for more likely suspects."

Hence, Norrington's current displeasure in the fellow who had once so competently served under him.

"You believe the Navy should pursue her?" he had asked. "Bring her back under our protection?"

"Yes, Sir," the younger man agreed. "If not for the sake of the Countess, than for our own reputation."

He had nodded shortly at the Commodore's hard look. "Before word spreads, and the people of this island begin to believe that they can no longer rely upon us to defend them."

"You've thought this out, I see." Norrington remarked calmly, but inwardly he had shuddered at the thought. What indeed would happen if the people lost faith in his authority?

"Very well, then," he went on, drawing a sheet of parchment from the many stacked neatly on his desk. "I leave the matter in your capable hands." Dipping his pen into the inkwell, he signed the document with a flourish, and slid the sheet to Nilsen.

"When you leave this office, you are to report to the **_Belerophon_**. There, you will assume command, and set sail at your earliest opportunity." Norrington had smiled thinly at the Lieutenant's dumbstruck expression. "From there, you are to track down this pirate, and bring the Countess home.

"I would suggest beginning with the Windward Passage," he added. "And scouting the waters around Tortuga."

That had startled Nilsen from his silence. "The French won't react well to what they'll interpret as an infringement on their territory by a British warship," he'd said pointedly.

All too true. While the island of Tortuga was long known as a haven for all manner of scoundrels, it was also common knowledge that the Governors who ruled the territory would tolerate these criminals so long as the ships of their nation remained unmolested, and they themselves received a healthy incentive to look the other way.

Norrington was certain that the reported bribes he'd heard of had been somewhat exaggerated.

But not by much.

"The truce must be honored. You'll only need inquire of passing vessels if they've caught sight of the **_Black Pearl_** within the past fortnight."

The young man nodded thoughtfully. "And when I've found them, Sir?"

Not 'if', his superior had noted, but 'when'.

"Amnesty," the Commodore said bluntly. "Temporary amnesty for Sparrow and his crew. If they surrender the Countess alive and unharmed, they're free to go their way."

It had gnawed at him to make that offer. Hours later, long after the newly made Commander had departed for his new post, it still did. Bargaining with any pirate went against everything in him, but to have to once more show clemency to this particular individual...

Not for the first time, Norrington regretted his impulsive decision to allow Sparrow his 'one day's head start'. That ancient, outdated, but ridiculously swift ship of his had remained just that one boat length out of reach ever since.

One would have thought, he reflected wryly, that feeling the platform drop from beneath one's feet, to be so very near to the end of one's life would have been a profound enough event to cause most men to alter their ways.

Apparently, Jack Sparrow was not 'most men'. Only days after his escape, a Dutch East Indiaman had been relieved of most of it's cargo by a black sailed ship that "came out of nowhere", in the words of its Captain, and departed with equal speed.

Sparrow had returned to his old ways immediately -- smuggling, sailing under false colors, and, of course, piracy. A pity that in all truth, Norrington could not add kidnapping to the already burgeoning list of charges. However, there was no denying the veracity of Lt. Nilsen's report.

The pirate had decided to play the gentleman-rescuer when yet again, the Navy had proved inadequate to the task.

"Damn the man."

Alone in his office, the Commodore would have been amused to learn just how many people shared those particular sentiments of late.

Jack was annoyed.

He supposed that there were more elegant, fitting words for his present mood; vexed, aggrieved...provoked.

But 'annoyed' still fairly well covered it.

It wasn't bad enough that an entire military band drummed cadence in his skull, that the bruised aching of his body seemed to have expanded to include...well, everything, and that he felt absolutely ravenous.

No, now it was the realization that getting any kind of decent amount of sleep was apparently out of the question.

Not that he terribly minded waking up to the sight of a face like hers, but did she have to continually insist upon taking that blasted little mirror of hers, and using it to aim blinding, stabbing flashes of lamp light into his eyes?

She'd done this once already. The second time didn't do much to improve his temper.

"But I have to see how your pupils respond to the light," Miranda told him patiently. "It's the best way to tell if you're concussed or not."

"You said that the last time," he countered sourly, forcing himself not to squint. "Wasn't that enough? So much for the angel of mercy."

She'd sounded pleased by this. "You remember -- that's a good sign. And it looks as though your eyes are reacting just as they should. Now," she held up a finger. "Follow this, but try not to move your head."

He did as asked, focusing on her hand while she moved it back and forth before him.

"Excellent." She smiled, but her face was weary. "I think it's safe to say that you're out of danger now. You should be able to sleep out the rest of the night."

Miranda rose and moved to his table, and to her waiting medicine case. Carefully placing her little mirror within, she drew out a small stoppered bottle.

"But I can give you something now for the pain. Do you feel up to eating first?" She held the bottle up to the light, shook her head, then replaced it, coming back up with yet another.

Jack gingerly sat up. "I could start gnawing on my boots if it'll convince you," he returned, and she wrinkled her nose.

"You could, I suppose. But I think you'll find Mr. Hischler's offering a better choice."

She returned to his bedside, bringing with her a tray.

He had to admit that his cook's 'offering' was far more appetizing than his footwear. It took much of Jack's self control to not bolt down the thick, meaty stew.

"He brought that just before I woke you," Miranda was saying. She was peeling the skin from an orange, lining up neat slices of the fruit on his plate. "Your men will be glad to know you're well. They've been hovering about waiting for word."

Mouth full, Jack could only grunt in acknowledgement.

"See he managed to remember those after all," he said finally, pointing his spoon at the oranges.

"Yes," she agreed with a short laugh. "Yes, he did. Almost enough for everyone to grow as tired of them as they seem to have grown of limes."

"Mmm..." He chewed thoughtfully, watching her from beneath his lashes as she lowered herself into a chair at his small table, her hand resting lightly on the open pages of one of his leather bound books beside her own empty tray.

"You've done some exploring, I see."

She glanced away. "I needed something to keep my mind alert while waiting to wake you." Miranda moved her hand over the pages. "This was quite a find. '_The Taming of the Shrew_' ?

Jack shook his head. "Not my favorite of his," he mumbled through a mouthful of soft biscuit, then swallowed, continuing at her look of curiosity.

"I never liked the ending. 'Bonny Kate' was more interesting before she got 'killed with kindness'." He bobbed his eyebrows. "More fun, too."

A faint smile answered him. "Not many would share your opinion, I'm afraid," she offered, and he shrugged.

"As my Lady may have had cause to observe, I don't hold much to conventional opinions."

"I had noticed. Once or twice."

For a physician who's patient was 'out of danger', as she'd put it, Miranda was remarkably on edge. Oh, she was making a fine effort to hide it, but from the way her fingers nervously turned the pages of the little book, the brief glances she gave him before hurriedly averting her eyes...

"Something on your mind, my Lady?"

From the line that appeared between her brows, something most definitely was.

Ah... so now she wasn't comfortable hearing herself addressed by him in that manner, was she?

Miranda gave him another smile. One that he felt sure was about as real as...as all of his teeth.

"I'm just tired," she said with a negligent wave. "It's been a very long day."

That he could well believe. And while he'd managed to snatch a few hours of sleep in between enduring her blinding examinations, he doubted the same could be said of her. Even so...

Jack knew he was being lied to. Something that, coming from her, he found that he didn't enjoy in the least. The Lady had always displayed a refreshing habit of speaking her mind to him. A candor that made him respond in kind with a truthfulness rarely demonstrated before 'outsiders'.

He caught her then, staring hard at his body with an odd expression. One of resolution, of reminding one's self of some unpleasant fact or another.

"Was there a problem, Lady?"

That evenly voiced question startled her from her concentration. She met his eyes guiltily, then raised one shoulder in a shrug.

"Nothing really," she began, but already he could see the first signs of that distanced mask she always retreated behind. "I was only just thinking that she must have been someone of some importance for you to display her name so."

Jack glanced down at himself. "Who -- Lily-Rose? Oh yes, you could say she was very important. Love at first sight, actually," he told her seriously. "When I first laid eyes on her, I knew she was the only one for me.

"Beautiful. Graceful. And very, ah... responsive? She was the most wonderful thing I'd ever had under my hands. He intoned these words with sweeping, languid gestures, all while keeping careful watch on her still face.

Something flared in the Lady's eyes. An emotion that for a moment, looked distinctly unfriendly before she withdrew once more into herself.

"Then," he went on, struggling to hide the grin that threatened at the corners of his mouth. "Barely a month after I'd gotten her memorialized here," He tapped at his chest. "A French warship blew her right out from under me."

Miranda blinked, then gave him a hard look.

He nodded sadly. "Aye. A tragic end to my fair **_Lily-Rose_** -- the first vessel I ever commanded."

Her lips compressed tightly. For a moment, Jack thought she would laugh outright.

"I'm deeply sorry for your loss," she said then in a strained voice.

"Oh, not as sorry as I was -- floating out in the middle of nowhere, hanging onto one of her spars for dear life with what was left of my crew cursing my name.

"But that was a long time ago. Seems like a lifetime... before _her_."

Jack put a hand fondly against the bulkhead, his mind awash with memories. Some good, some not so much so...but all of them most interesting.

"Nothing was ever quite the same after I got the **_Pearl_**," he remarked quietly, more to himself than to the Lady.

Miranda was regarding him thoughtfully, her expression now one of cautious understanding, if he read her right.

Then she genteelly stifled a yawn, and Jack realized that not all of her fatigue had been an act.

"You should get some sleep, Lady."

She nodded, rising slowly to her feet. "I will, but let me measure this out first."

Tipping a few drops from her little bottle into a mug of water, she brought this to him, taking away his empty tray.

"More of that laudanum of yours?" Jack asked, staring suspiciously at the cup. He sniffed at the contents, then downed the lot.

"No, this should help without fogging your head."

Her concoction left an odd taste in his mouth, but the last orange slice in his hand took care of that.

"At this point, a foggy head wouldn't be the worst thing I could think of." He rubbed at his forehead, and threw an wistful look at the squat bottle of rum sitting just out of reach. "I don't suppose you'll let me have any of that?" he wondered hopefully, and she followed his eyes.

"I can't stop you," she said with a worried frown, "But I can tell you honestly that liquor won't do anything for you now -- except leave you with a nastier headache when you wake again.

"If... if you'd just give my tincture a few minutes to work..." Miranda trailed off uncertainly.

She was testing him, Jack realized. Testing him to see how far his trust went.

"I bow to my Lady's superior wisdom, then," he said grandly, overplaying this a bit, but winning a real smile from her nonetheless.

Besides, he told himself, if her drug didn't work, he could always get his bottle once she'd gone. He set the cup on his lamp table, lowering himself back onto his pillows. Admittedly, having a pleasantly full belly did help to take the edge off the aches of his mistreatment.

She moved around his cabin, blowing out candles, and extinguishing lamps.

"I'll leave you to sleep now," she told him, stopping at his lamp table to dim the lantern there.

He caught at her arm before she could turn away, and drew her slowly down to sit at the edge of his bed. She didn't resist, but perched there so stiffly that he knew she was prepared to bolt from him.

"I don't suppose I could convince you to..." He gestured weakly at his forehead, giving her a helpless little smile. "It worked so well before."

No nagging jabs from his conscience now. He _knew_ he wasn't playing fair, banking on her sympathy to keep her here.

Truthfully, he didn't want her to leave. A feeling that only intensified when, after a moment of staring suspiciously at him, Miranda relented, once more drawing her fingers over his bandaged forehead and into his hair.

Her touch sent a tingling sensation through him, set gooseflesh to raising on his arms, and again, brought a tightening to his groin. He relaxed, closing his eyes with a contented sigh, then patted at the mattress beside him.

"Plenty of room if you want to stretch out," he offered in a voice much drowsier than he actually felt, then placed his hand over his heart. "And I swear, I'll be on my best behavior."

She drew a sharp breath. Jack slitted his eyes open, found hers were turned away, her face not marked by that pretty blush as he'd expected, but pale instead.

"You're not still frightened of old Jack, are you, lass? Not after today, surely -- and I'm hardly in any condition to get frisky with you, if that's what's in your head."

This last wasn't exactly true. From the way she suddenly got to her feet, they both knew it.

"I'm very tired, Ja... Captain..." Her voice shook horribly, sounding close to tears. "No, please --" she begged when he sat up. "Please, just... just rest now."

"Miranda," he began, but she gathered up her belongings in haste, and was gone before he could think of what to say next.

Jack stared after her, still feeling the effects of her touch, and a guilty sensation that stabbed at his innards.

What had changed? What had happened from the time that she'd melted into his kiss -- to now?

That kiss, he reflected again with a renewed surge of longing, the way she'd held him. The way her body had molded itself to his. That had not been feigned. By either of them.

Why pretend that it hadn't happened? Why fool one's self into believing otherwise?

Jack sighed, and climbed slowly to his feet. He would never understand them. Never comprehend how a woman's mind could change so rapidly from one extreme to the next. He reached for his rum bottle, unstoppering it, and downing a mouthful, feeling a strong burn as the alcohol hit the cut on the inside of his cheek, but not caring.

Her medicine had worked. Just as she'd promised, the aches and pains in his body were noticeably less. That wasn't the reason for his drinking now.

Knowing full well the headache he risked enduring come morning, still he took another long pull, and waited for the familiar numbing to begin.

Jack very much wanted to be numb just now. He didn't want to feel the fluttering in his stomach that just the memory of her smile, of the feel of her lips under his brought to him.

Lord -- how long had it been since something as simple as a kiss had done this to him? And the way she'd finally said his name...as though it were a prayer offered to heaven.

How would she utter his name, he mused, were she in his arms again, laying beneath him in his bed with his body covering hers? Would she voice that sound, that part sigh-part song that had so aroused him before?

Just the thought of it aroused him now. He winced at the strong reaction from his body, and tipped more rum down his throat.

The bottle was empty now. He stared at it mournfully. Shook it as if this could magically bring just a few more drops into evidence. Then he shrugged.

Another full five just like it were locked in his cabinet, but he couldn't bring himself to expend the energy in fetching one. Instead, he returned to his bed, where he watched the rain slide in long rivulets down the window.

He stared until his eyelids grew heavy again, then stretched out, pulling the blanket up to cover himself, yawning loudly into his hand.

But the memory of her touch remained. Jack drew in his breath, blowing it out noisily as he turned his eyes to the door. To the last place he'd seen her tonight.

"Changed our mind, have we?" he said quietly in the dim cabin. "Had time to think about what we were doing? That's alright, luv." He smiled faintly.

"I'm a very patient man."


	24. Chapter 21A

Here is a very short chapter. It's short, only because my computer is informing me that this chapter is far longer than I'd realized, and this site doesn't want to be bo†hered to take it all in one document. So, onec again, I'll have to split up this single installment into two. Before I head into this part, I'd like to say a special thanks to Scarlett Burns for the wonderful Beta-ing job. And an apology as well. I've just realized that, like a moron, I FORGOT to thank and credit her for the job she did on Chapter 19 (which shows up as being chap. 22 here), so I'd like to rectify that here and now. Scarlett -- thank you for the much needed help! Now finish the Sands story!!! LOL! As we all must surely know by now, none of these established characters belong to me. And you have NOOOOO idea how that galls me. On with the show -- the Outlaw sails again, with...

**Chapter 21**

Many miles from the wake of the **_Black Pearl_**, a man of great impatience trod the wooden deck of another vessel. A ship whose very foreignness was like a nagging itch in the back of his mind.

Edward Dunnthorpe halted his restless pacing, standing amidship at the starboard railing to gaze with some longing at his own sailing ship at anchor only a few boat lengths away.

From here, he could faintly hear the sound of laughter coming from the gun deck, and the merry notes of fiddlers scrapping away to the measured beat of the drums.

If he squinted hard enough, he thought he could just make out the puffs of bluish smoke from those enjoying their pipes by the 'smoking lantern'.

A surge of frustration washed over him. He wanted to be there -- aboard the **_Sovereign Crown_**, enjoying his tobacco and fine wine, and maybe a few hands of cards with the Captain and officers.

Not here. Not on this strange ship with a name he couldn't wrap his mouth around. Here, all was silent as a tomb.

Here, he waited. Chaffing under the bidding of a fellow who was, at the very best, insane.

At worst, the man was something that his mind didn't really care to dwell upon.

"You there," he called in his best authorative manner to a small fellow emerging from the lower decks, "Your master -- when will he receive me?"

The dark little man met his eyes insolently. Were this his own ship, Edward would have had him beaten for his presumptuousness.

"The Baron of Laevan will wait here," he was informed, "My Lord is not yet done with his... ritual."

The brazen fellow made to leave, and Edward moved to block him.

"And when will he be done?"

The insolent look changed to one of patronizing tolerance.

"When the sacrifice has given all that he is able, the Master will be with you."

Edward shuddered, giving his informant the chance to slip by him, and away.

Dunnthorpe stared after him, then shifted his gaze to the **_Sovereign Crown_** when the musicians struck up a particularly lively aire. He resumed his pacing with a frustrated growl, wondering not for the first time what had possessed him to ever enter into dealings with this... this foreign, heathen lunatic.

But of course, he already knew the answer to that.

Power. Power, and the promise thereof.

Edward did have his pragmatic moments. He realized well that he needed the master of this vessel as much, if not more, than he himself was needed. His words to his former wife did have some truth behind them -- her position at the court of His Majesty had suffered as a result of her abandonment.

But his own position wasn't quite as secure with that line of Hanoverian usurpers as he'd let on.

Edward Dunnthorpe owed a great deal of money to a great deal of people. Important people. His life could become extremely uncomfortable if news of just how much debt he was in became common knowledge. His speculations -- for he considered himself far to refined and above the idea of calling it 'gambling' -- had not played out the way he'd expected. As a result, he'd found himself becoming something of an embarrassment to the monarchy whose favor he and his family had cultivated for so long.

"I am sorry, Edward," His Royal Majesty, King George II had told him in the rude, guttural German that he felt more comfortable using when speaking in confidance, "I've done all that I can to aide you."

Then, the King had given him a look of pity. "If only your first wife hadn't been such a faithless creature. Her wealth could have been the saving grace for your situation."

How it had galled him to bow politely to a man whom, in his opinion, occupied a place that he felt should belong to someone far more worthy.

Someone like himself.

If his thrice cursed ancestors had only had sons a few generations back, instead of daughters, it might have been his family on that throne now. If his idiot of a great, great grandfather hadn't been so shortsighted as to offend the monarchy of his day, Edward might just be viewing the world from a far loftier perspective right now.

Who would have ever imagined that a renewed chance to attain all that he ever dreamed was due him would come from his association with that disobedient little witch who'd so humiliated him?

Some might have claimed that he'd received more than his fair share from his marriage to begin with. Miranda Warringford's dowry had been expansive. Her family was well liked, and financially... well, the sheer numbers made him salivate. He wondered if that foolish woman had ever bothered her head to learn firsthand just how much her ridiculously doting father had left to her. Just how much was left over after Lord Roddrick, the late Count of Hoercester, had paid Edward to accept Miranda's suit for divorce.

Some part of him whispered that things might have been different, that he might still be enjoying control of her wealth, had he just shown a bit more patience with her.

No... it had been her own fault. She was the one who had always questioned him, always had her nose in his personal affairs, and had never failed to tempt his anger with her foolishness and disobedience.

How was a man supposed to react when his wife eternally fought him when he tried to exercise his God-given rights? She would always struggle, crying and carrying on as if he were trying to murder her, instead of get her with his child. Wasn't that what these feather-headed creatures wanted, after all? To bear the sons and heirs to the line?

Her own sisters had done well enough in that respect. Why couldn't he have gotten one of them, instead of the one Warringford daughter rebellious and stubborn enough to risk his anger while she still carried his offspring inside of her.

It wasn't his fault, he told himself again. He couldn't possibly be the one to blame for reacting when she'd come at him, brazenly demanding some idiotic favor or another. It hadn't been his fault that he'd been drunk -- the loss of his favorite hunting horse in a card game gone awry had driven him to seek out the public house, and a few glasses there.

One could hardly place the blame on him, for not realizing in his impaired state, that she'd stood a bit closer to the staircase than she should have when he'd justifiably reprimanded her.

She was was the one who had done it. She was the one who had caused the death of his son -- for the physicians had all been most certain that the stillborn infant had been male. She was the one who could never remember her place.

Oh, he had magnanimously forgiven her. Had waited the proscribed time before trying on her again. Those same doctors had been most vehement in impressing upon him the importance of waiting for a fragile woman's body to heal if he wanted a healthy heir.

At least she hadn't fought him after that, but -- damn the btch! -- never had she conceived again from that time on. Had her family's rank not been higher than his own, had he not needed the union to her to advance his station, he might have been tempted to put her aside, barren as she so obviously was.

But she'd left him first, embarrassing him before his peers. Made him the laughing stock of the court.

For that, he would never forgive her.

True, his connections had aided in his second marriage. Sarah Everingham, first daughter of the Viscount of Innes. And with the added bonus of the agreement he'd insisted upon with the Count of Hoercester that the Warringfords would not speak against him if he graciously accepted the divorce, life had seemed good for a time. At least his second wife had given him an heir before dying , and left him to console himself with his mistresses, and her inheritance. At least she hadn't been nearly as ungrateful and rebellious.

At times, Edward even found that he missed her, dull though Sarah had been.

Miranda... in a way, he missed her too.

Ah -- he was looking forward to seeing that one again. Let her run. It only strengthened his resolve to teach her the error of her ways. She would not be able to hide forever. And when she couldn't...

Edward Dunnthorpe smiled in anticipation of that happy eventuality.

_She would pay. Oh, how she would pay._

The little man that had been so insolent to him earlier hurried past him. Edward turned, following him with his eyes, and saw the procession emerging up from the lower decks.

_About time_, he thought waspishly,_ that my estimable partner decided to grace me with his presence._

"What kept you?" he asked angrily, and the tall figure shrouded in his strange robes raised his head slowly, fixing Edward with steel gray eyes.

"Patience, Lord Baron," came the flat, accented voice that even after over a year, still caused every hair on his body to stand on end. "I will attend to you when we have given honor to this faithful one."

He moved to one side, allowing the men behind to file solemnly by, bearing between them some heavy, tarpaulin wrapped object. The bearers paused at the railing, and the little servant drew back the covering, shaking his head at what he saw there.

"Too much," he intoned sadly, "He gave too much, my Kuriakos."

"He gave all that he had, Cyriacus." The gray eyes lowered, regarding the tarp with an expression that Dunnthorpe couldn't guess at. "When I am restored to myself, he will be rewarded."

Curious in spite of himself, Edward risked a step closer. Peering into the tarp, he drew back with a shudder.

The body curled up on itself within the heavy cloth was as shriveled and desiccated as a raisin. The skin was as brown as old shoe leather, and though Edward knew for a surety that no one who sailed or rowed on this vessel was of advanced years, the hair on the withered head was as white as snow.

"When I am restored," that cool voice went on with a note of emotion for the first time evident, "I shall wrest his soul from whatever plain imprisons him. His eternity will be spent in a place of prominence."

Those piercing eyes fixed upon him again. Shaken, Edward retreated to the other side of the ship, wondering what madness he'd involved himself in. He had plenty of time to think on this as his host, in unnatural stillness, observed his men slowly chanting in their heathen tongue, consigning the husk of their comrade to the deep.

Edward gripped hard at a guide rope. When this man, this... thing -- had first approached him, seeking the whereabouts of that ludicrous trinket his once mother-in-law had always worn, he'd been desperate enough to agree to a partnership in this venture.

'Lord Metis', as he'd been introduced, had seemingly bottomless coffers, and an almost carefree way of doling out the contents.

That ring led to a far greater treasure, Metis had promised, and if Edward would only lend his aid in acquiring it, nothing would be beyond his reach.

Nothing.

At the time, he'd eagerly accepted. Now, staring at the too-still form of his benefactor, at the almost religious fervor on the faces of his men, Edward Dunnthorpe began to feel the stirrings of a very real fear.

The shrouded body disappeared over the side, splashing down into the sea. Those that had borne it bowed deeply to their master, and silently filed away. The annoying Cyriacus fellow trailed after.

Metis turned, facing out to the waters. Edward saw his head tip back, angling up towards the moon. He stood there, immobile as any statue.

Edward bristled. Had the fellow forgotten him?

"Approach, friend Edward." that flat voice called then, with a hint of irony.

Dunnthorpe shuddered anew, crossing the deck, seething inwardly at being summoned like a common servant.

"You've had news, then?"

Straight, black brows lifted slightly. "It is moving again. The distance increases between us. You must make your ship ready to sail."

"Now?" Edward protested, "But the men have already put down the sea anchors for the night."

"They will have to raise them." he was informed bluntly. "I am too close to regaining what is mine. I will not allow it to elude me again."

Metis closed his eyes, head cocked in an attitude of listening.

"She moves swiftly, your Contessa." he remarked with the faintest touch of a smile to those pale lips. "Her ship is a fast one. No matter though. It cannot avail her much longer."

The eyes snapped open, fixing again on the moon, and the light reflecting in them was like lightning through storm clouds.

"I remember these waters," Metis said quietly. "I remember soaring above this ocean, watching these islands cool from the fires of their birth."

Edward felt that it would be wisest to remain silent, even though the words made his skin crawl.

"Much has changed since then," Metis mused softly, "Much is different." The still face lowered, turning, much to Edward's discomfort, to stare at himself instead.

One arm lifted slowly, displaying at its end the gloved hand that had never moved once in the entirety of their association.

"How much more difference when all is restored?"

Edward found that he couldn't bear to meet those eyes any longer. He glanced away, shifting uneasily from foot to foot like a child.

"Go. Return to your fine vessel, Lord Baron. Tell them we make way within the hour."

It was not a request, evenly voiced though the words had been. Edward Dunnthorpe found himself nodding humbly, moving to do as bidden, cowed by a power of will greater than his own.

"Soon, Edward," that eerie voice drifted after him, "Soon, your reward will be within reach as well."

He didn't know why, but the promise sent fresh tremors though his limbs. Not even the thought of the fine decanter of brandy that awaited him in his cabin was enough to cheer him again.


	25. Chapter 21B

Why don't we skip the preview, and just get right down to business with...

**Chapter 21** cont...

"You can't keep hiding in here forever, you know." AnaMaria said pointedly, folding her arms in front of her chest.

Miranda lowered her eyes to her mending needle. "I don't know what you mean."

The dark skinned girl gave a derisive snort, and sat down heavily on her bed.

"Of course you don't," she said scathingly, "That's why you haven't spent more than a few minutes out of this room since we left Havana."

Miranda said nothing, only concentrated on her neat, straight stitches. She felt compelled to speak, though, when it became evident that the girl was only going to sit there, staring until she accounted for herself.

"I haven't exactly felt my best." she began. The words sounded weak, even to her own ears. "And I have been out -- I just didn't feel like displaying myself with this," she waved at her bruised jawline, "Glowing off my face."

"You can barely see it," AnaMaria insisted, "And nobody's looking for it anyways. You've only gone topside when all of us on the day watch are asleep. Don't think I haven't noticed, Lady." The First Mate drew one leg up under her, and narrowed her eyes.

"What are you hiding from?"

Miranda snipped her thread, looking critically at the newly mended shoulder line of the worn linen shirt. She folded the garment, setting this atop the faded waistcoat to next pick up the much heavier frock coat, frowning at the faint, darker staining that surrounded the incisions through outer cloth and lining.

She sighed, and rifled through her little sewing box, choosing a darker thread for her needle.

"I'm not hiding, Ani." she said calmly, resuming her mending.

"Bilge."

Miranda looked up. Seated at the edge of her bed, AnaMaria thrust her chin out defiantly, skepticism plain in her great, dark eyes.

"That's not true, and you know it." She co,cked her head curiously. "What happened, Lady -- between you and Jack? What are you so afraid of?"

"Ani, please --" Miranda dropped her hands into her lap. "It's "

"Why?" came the impatient demand. "What's so complicated about it?" She leaned forward, dropping her voice a bit. "He didn't...Jack didn't try anything with you, did he?"

"No." Miranda answered quickly, then amended, "Well, not offensively so."

"That's good," AnaMaria nodded, looking thoughtful. "Wouldn't be his way, in any case."

By the way the girl's brows lifted in amusement, Miranda knew she must have looked surprised at this.

"Aye, that wouldn't be our Jack. He's a lot of things, that one. Most of the time, usually the last thing you'd expect."

Miranda set her busywork aside, fascinated by her cabinmate's words. She'd had occasion to note the easy relationship between this Captain and his crew. It wasn't the first time she'd heard him referred to as 'our Jack' by these people. They seemed to so genuinely care for the man.

The way they'd all hung about in the corridor, anxiously trying to see over each other into his cabin when Mr. Gibbs and Vinccensi had carried his unconscious body to his bed, milling about until the Quartermaster had to threaten them in his thunderous voice to drive them back to their posts.

She found herself having to revise many of her long held notions about these 'vile and dissolute creatures' whose sheer viciousness extended even to each other, and whose lives together were, at best, an uneasy truce.

And this code of theirs... how easily it seemed to fall by the wayside when one of their own was in danger.

So very odd. But then, she reflected, no more so than trying to reconcile the image of this hardened, battle-toughened young Amazon seated across from her with the memory of that terrified little child on the auction block.

"You know, I think that's the real reason you've been hiding out in here." AnaMaria continued, "Jack didn't 'try' hard enough, and now you're sulking."

"_Ani!_" Miranda gaped at the girl, and felt a slow flush crawl up her cheeks.

AnaMaria only threw back her head, howling with laughter while she pointed with a shaking hand.

"Oh! Oh, if you could see the look on your face!"

Miranda glowered at her, quite suddenly rendered incapable of speech. Snapping her mouth shut, she picked up the frock coat, stabbing the needle through the heavy fabric with perhaps a bit more force than necessary.

"Well, I just thought you might have been disappointed and all," AnaMaria said when she'd calmed herself, "What with you just sitting here -- mending _his_ clothes. Why are you doing that, anyways?" she wanted to know, "Plenty of people here that can do that well enough."

Miranda lifted one shoulder. "It gives me something useful to do. Mending a tear isn't much different than mending an injury. Except that the cloth usually doesn't squirm around, yelping and cursing each time I make a stitch." She noted with some amusement that her hardened, battle-toughened cabinmate looked a touch queasy at that idea.

"I'd hope not," AnaMaria said fervently, suppressing a shudder.

"It seemed fitting, somehow," Miranda said with a thoughtful frown, "That brute was trying to stab me, but your Captain took the blow instead. And as I'd already stitched him back together..."

She left the thought hanging while AnaMaria slowly shook her head.

"Aye... that would be Jack. Like I said, always doing the last thing you'd ever expect."

"How long have you known him?"

A faint smile touched the girl's lips. "Oh, a few years, now, and knew of him for years before that. Never met a man so hell-bent on spreading his own legends.

"That's what he's all about, you know," AnaMaria said with a knowing nod, "It's not the hunt, or the chase, or the fighting, or even the swag. It's all about making sure that the world remembers the name of Captain. Jack. Sparrow." She intoned the name grandly, while dramatic gestures punctuated each word. Then she laughed merrily, and Miranda had to join in.

"Funny thing about Jack..." AnaMaria's voice held a somber note now. "Sometimes, I wonder if he's starting to believe his own legends. He thinks he can get away with anything if he just talks fast enough. Like he can run between the raindrops and not get wet.

"But sometimes he doesn't just get wet, Lady. Sometimes he gets hurt. Oh, he hides it good -- keeps it way down deep where he thinks no one can see.

"You can, though, if you know where to look."

Leaving her needle in the thick linen, Miranda rested her chin on her hand, digesting what she'd just heard. How amazing that words like these could be used in conjunction with a pirate.

True, Jack Sparrow was unlike any man she'd ever known.

"Have you -- have you ever... " she stammered out as another thought occurred to her.

"...with the Captain?"

AnaMaria only gave her a look of complete incomprehension.

Miranda nervously dropped her eyes. Honestly, she couldn't think of a delicate way to ask what was now preying on her mind.

"Me... and Jack?" the girl asked slowly, now staring as if Miranda had just grown a third eye in the center of her forehead.

Then she fell back onto her bed, clutching at her sides, and laughing hard enough to give her doctor cause for concern about that still healing rib.

"Ani?"

"Me and Jack!" was the choked reply. "_Ow!_ Oh, God, could you just imagine -- ow! Oh,_ hell!_ That hurts... "

But she continued to laugh helplessly despite the obvious pain.

"No," AnaMaria said when she could speak again, "No, me and Jack have never... that." She sat up, wiping at her streaming eyes. "I love him like he was my own kin, but... no." Then, she fixed Miranda with a stern glare. "And if you ever tell him I said that, I swear, I'll put an eel in your bed."

Miranda raised her hands in a gesture of acquiescence.

"We wouldn't mix well, he and I." AnaMaria went on, "He's too slippery, and I've got too much of a temper. Anyways, I was always too stuck on... on somebody else for that to happen.

"Giermo de Santos," she said after a moments thought. "But all his mates called him 'Wiley' de Santos. He was a rum-runner... a smuggler. Fair man to sail with, and one hell of a sight to see."

AnaMaria sighed gustily, then gave a half hearted little smile.

"I wanted to go into business with him, but... he said I was too distracting. Didn't want me on his ship, because if I was there, we'd never get any work done, he and I. I think he was just trying to keep me out of harm's way, if you want the truth.

"They hanged him last year." The words dropped like stones from her mouth, and Miranda's heart squeezed with pity for the girl.

"Off the Floridas. I didn't find out 'til weeks after." AnaMaria wiped at her eyes again, then shrugged. "I decided to stick it out here with Jack. I trust him, and he trusts me to pull my weight. Between you and me, that means a lot.

"Besides," she looked up with a ghost of her impish humor. "The bloody rat still owes me a ship. He sank my boat, then got the one he promised to replace it with blown apart." AnaMaria spread her hands. "I'm still waiting. Now," she fixed Miranda with a firm look. "Are you going to stop hiding out in here, Lady, or am I going to have to send Jack down to chase you out himself?"

Miranda gave her a flat stare, but couldn't hide her surprise at the girl's next words.

"He's been asking after you, you know." The First Mate gave another of those knowing little grins, and nodded. "In that roundabout way of his, of course, but he's asking. He's taken a fancy to you. I can tell.

"And don't try telling me that he hasn't got your attention, Lady, because we both know that's not true."

Miranda sighed, tipping her head back against the solidity of the bulkhead.

"No," she admitted softly. "No, that wouldn't be true at all."

There. She'd said it aloud. Now, it was out in the open.

"But if you tell him I said that, I'll deny it to my last breath."

"Fair enough," was AnaMaria's reply. "But it's not as if it doesn't show."

"Does it?" Miranda lifted her head, feeling every bit, at her age, like a very flustered child. "Oh, Ani... what am I going to do? This... this _can't_ end well."

"Why not? Is it because he's a pirate, and you're... well, practically royalty?"

"Hardly that last," Miranda retorted with a very unladylike snort. "And it's not even this life you all lead. It's just..." She pressed her hands over her eyes, and once more wished for nothing more than to be home.

"I didn't want this. Not after Edward. Not after Phillip, or those wretched men who were befouling my character at one moment, and trying to bed me the next.

"I've... I mean... " She faltered, searching for the words, and felt the years of frustration taking form in the tears that blurred her vision, and the clumsy lump that formed in her throat. "I've done what was expected of me. What was asked of someone in my place -- and it cost me everything that truly had meaning. My so-called friends, my reputation, even my..." She stopped herself before she could speak the last, remembering how she had begged to hold that still, tiny form that her injured body had rejected. Pleading to see her baby at least once before the doctors took him away.

"Edward took everything. He took my innocence, and my youth... my freedom. Everything that made me _me._"

"But you took it back, didn't you?" AnaMaria rose and came to Miranda's side, gripping her shoulder with her strong, sailor's hand.

"He didn't win -- none of 'em did. And maybe you should think about doing what it is that you really want, instead of what's expected of you for a change."

What she wanted... Miranda thought that this was exactly what she had been doing. She'd lived the life of her choosing. She'd traveled, and learned, and did things that no woman, much less one born to one of her station, were ever supposed to have done.

Yet even so, there was a certain loneliness that remained, and a sense of something missing from her life that she'd always pushed to the back of her mind. Especially after Phillip Shaw's deception. She had promised to never allow anyone to fool her so again. To never let a man make her feel as though she'd lost herself. And her resolve had held unshaking. Until Jack.

Yes -- Jack. She couldn't even bring herself to think of him in that restrained, formal manner anymore. Already, there had been too much between them for that.

"But is this what I truly want, Ani?" she asked, and hated the helpless tone of her voice, "To tryst with a man like him? To be just another in his list of conquests until he tires of me and moves on to the next? Why in the world would I want to open myself to that kind of hurt?"

AnaMaria gave her an impatient look. "You think too much. Try feeling for a change, it's a lot more fun. And maybe it wouldn't be like that at all -- who knows?" She chuckled wickedly. "Maybe it's you who'll tire of him first.

"And what you should be asking yourself is this: How will you feel if you don't take that chance, Lady?"

Miranda stared up at her wonderingly, amazed that someone so young should become so very wise.

"Ani," she said firmly. "I hardly think there's need for titles between us anymore. My name is Miranda. I hope you'll use it."

The girl blinked, then smiled shyly. "Well, as long as you're going to keep calling me by a name I haven't heard since I was a child, I'd be glad to, Miranda." She glanced up then, as the sound of the watch bell carried down through the decks. "I'm up next." she announced, straightening, "You coming to the galley later?"

"Perhaps. You will try to be careful with that side, won't you? Now that your stitches are out, I'm afraid you'll do too much and hurt it again."

"I'll be good, mother." AnaMaria moved across the tiny cabin. "Better get up there before Joshamee starts carrying on about women having nothing more to do than sit around and gossip."

"Ani -- if you had known what would happen to your young man... how he would end up, would you still..?"

AnaMaria paused in the doorway, a sad bend to her lips as she turned.

"Aye," she said softly. "In a flash, and no looking back."

Then she was gone, closing the door quietly behind her.

Miranda stared after her for a long time; Long after the girl's footsteps had faded. She resumed her mending then, unable to help but wonder what it must be like to feel as deeply as her cabinmate had, and still did. To be so certain of one's self and one's heart as to love with complete disregard for whatever may come. To trust another so implicitly with heart, body, and soul...'in a flash, with no looking back'.

Trust. That was what it all came down to. The simple ability to believe in the intentions of another.

That ability was not a part of her anymore.

_But why not_, her mind whispered, _when you've already given your_ life _into the man's hands._

Oh, yes. A man who had already admitted that he owed her for his own life. That Jack would keep his word in this she had no doubt. He was too... honest to do otherwise. But to trust him beyond that?

"I'm sorry, Ani," she murmured aloud. "I'm not that brave. I'm not you."

She shook herself then, and returned her attention to the fabric in her lap. Bad enough that she sat here feeling so pathetically sorry for herself, she could at least keep her stitchwork tidy.

The silver needle slid easily through the rough cloth, drawing the smoky thread in its wake. She worked swiftly now, without distractions or interruptions. The outer cloth was soon finished. Unless one looked too closely, one would be hard pressed to see where the knife had sliced through. Miranda switched to a lighter thread again, and went next for the hole in the coat lining.

The needle flashed as it swam through the thinner weave, torn edges coming together easily under her hand as she closed the gap. A few final knots of the thread, and the task was done. Making whole what was sundered.

Making whole...

No -- no, that must not happen! If what was once sundered should be made whole again, all would be lost! Should what was once taken be restored, and no immortal stood in the honored place to defend, what could stand against him? What could stand -- for the land would shake again. The very seas would rise up, driven on by the anger of the storms. The winds would sweep away all who dared oppose, and the Great Ones no longer heard the cries of their children. It would be the end of all things... the end of all.

"Mama, I don't like this story," a child's voice cried plaintively. "What if the monster wakes up and no one's there -- will he come after us?" I'm scared, mama!"

"My dear one," an older, richer voice said soothingly, and there was an impression of a comforting warmth. Of being held by familiar, loving arms, and the scarcely remembered scent of cinnamon and roses. "My little storm child... I don't know. He may never wake again."

There was a long silence, then a sigh, and mama's voice spoke again. "But you saw what was hidden, my Tryphia... my sweet little Miranda. And there are monsters in the world. I never thought it would be you to bear it, Miranda. I always thought Elisse would be the one to carry this burden."

"I don't understand, mama."

Another long silence, and then a soft chuckle answered. "You will, Miranda. When you're older. It could still be that you won't need to.

"But if you are the one to carry on, you'll need to be strong. Can you be strong, Miranda?

"I can try, mama." little Miranda promised solomnly, "I'll try to be strong."

"There's my sweet girl. Time for bed now -- when you're older, I promise this will all make sense."

But it didn't make sense! Miranda came to herself, the needle gripped so tightly in her hand that the thin metal threatened to cut into her flesh.

"It doesn't make sense, mama," she whispered, "You never told me what it was. You never told me."

Miranda straightened. It didn't make sense -- but it was still another small piece of this formidable puzzle she found herself trying to piece together. And there was another who had insisted upon knowing it when another part was revealed. She bit through the remaining thread, and rose, throwing the needle into her kit. Miranda knew what she had to do. She had to face him. She had to seek the man out, and tell him what she had just seen.

Her eyes fell on a stack of neatly folded clothing beside her trunk, and an idea sprang to her mind.

_"Nothing quite like it for clearing the head," she remembered him saying. Time to see if this was in fact true._

Quickly unlacing herself from her practical gown, she shed her corset, stepping out of her heavy skirts and dressed herself again in the garb that she'd once had made for another man in what seemed now like another lifetime.

**A/N:**And here we are, another week, another monster chapter of doom! Now onto what I like to call... (clears throat) the part where I bow down to you, the readers! Thank you all for your wonderful reviews --- they're what keep me -- and to a certain extent, this story -- going!

Whosegotyou and Geruvah: Thanks very much! Hope this update keeps you with me for a bit longer! (evil grin)

Cold-blooded-angel: Glad you're likeing what you're finding here in my twisted little part of the world. Miranda does have a bit of a biting edge to her -- especially when under pressure. Gibbs just happened to get in the way... and he's still smarting a bit from it. (LOL!)

Sushimi and Rose O'Shea: You've got it! Here's more! Lemme know what you think!

Blueskiezrusty: My goodness! I'm complimented beyond belief that you did that! I know I've been caught by stories on occasion. Time certainly does fly -- as do the curses from my mouth when I realize that I've been up all night, and have to go to work and be intelligent on no sleep. LOL Thank you very much!

Nivada: A-HA! -- so THAT'S how you flush lurkers out from their hiding places: Just be too braindead and tired to write another chappie, and STARVE 'EM OUT! lol! Sorry about that. I'll try to keep things a bit more timely, Lord willin' an' the creek don't rise.

AJ-Sparrow: Hey! Oh, I'm SOOO glad you're liking my portrayel of Jack. Without him, the whole thing falls apart. The boy keeps me on my toes, that's for sure. Whaaaaaaaahhhh! I've had a few people tell me this should be submitted to be a possible PoTC2, but... there's no way the final version would in any way, shape, or form resemble what I've written. :( Plus, PoTC IS still a Disney property, and I think this story would be a little to... ah -- intense for their usual fare. Bummer. But I take this as a great compliment anyway, so thank you! Real life is... real life. I write THIS story to escape it. Not quite a field of paper flowers, but I like it. ;)

Michiru, Michiru, Michiru... I bow my head right back at you. And I still want to see your written works! And get that large hoofed friend of yours out there to enjoy him/herself, before that aforementioned large hoof is placed insistantly on your nowhere-near-as-large foot. Sometimes, when they decide to drop hints, they ain't too subtle about it. LOL! Almost afraid to see what you'll have to say about this installment. Let me admit that after writting the first part of this chapter, I felt in severe need of mental floss. His Lordship's brain is NOT a fun place to occupy.

As always, thank you all. And on your way out, please feel free to check that little box in the left hand corner of the bottom of the page. Please R&R, and I'll see you soon! 


	26. Chapter 22

Disclaimer: yadda, yadda, yadda... Disney... yakety-schmakety... Bruckheimer... Blah-de-frikkity-blah!

**Chapter 23**

The weather was erratic today. At one time with winds that were steady and strong, and the next, a few intermittent gusts followed by a sudden drop to a near calm. Not the best weather for a sailing ship. The **_Black Pearl_** felt as though she limped along in halting lunges, rather than driving purposefully before the wind.

_Capricious_, Jack thought, and screwed up his eyes against another sudden gust. _Aye, that's a good wording for it - capricious._

Rather a fair description also of his present companion. She had shown up on deck, arms laden with a pile of his own clothing. He'd wondered where those articles had vanished to. The rust colored shirt that hung around him now was far too large, and far too old. Good thing for him that he hadn't thrown it away just yet - it was the only shirt he had left that didn't look and smell like the fourth morning of a three day shore leave.

"Here," the Lady had said, shoving the pile into his hands. "I'm hoping that's the last time I'll feel the need to sew these or you back together again."

That had stung a bit. "A simple 'please try to be more careful when saving my life, Jack' would have sufficed." he muttered sulkily, and she lowered her eyes contritely.

"S' alright, luv. No worries." He pulled his coat on, and noted her own choice of apparel. "I'm taking it that there's more to this visit than just returning my old rags.

"

"Yes," Miranda began cautiously, "I've remembered again."

And so it was that Jack found himself once again seated atop the uppermost platform of the mizenmast with this woman whose temperament was as unpredictable to him as this weather. Listening while the words poured out of her.

"Let me back you up there a bit." he said when she'd finished, "What's this about an 'immortal in the honored place'?"

"I don't know." Miranda admitted with a quick shake of her head. "Mama wanted to explain it to me. All of it, I'm sure, but..."

"Why didn't she?" Perhaps if he kept her talking, more useful hints would jar loose.

"She never had a chance." The Lady turned her face away, staring fixedly at the horizon line off their stern. "She - when I left my husband... ran home, I wasn't very..." She cleared her throat and pressed on, looking pained. "It wasn't pleasant to see."

Jack felt a hot swoop of anger. Her words more or less proved his assessment of the nobleman's character. He wasn't usually the kind to contemplate doing away with someone who hadn't personally wronged him, but in the case of this Dunnthorpe fellow, an exception was definitely in order.

"She had a stroke." Miranda's voice cracked in earnest this time. "Not long after I came home. She went to bed, and sometime in the night... Papa said that he didn't blame me for it - that her health hadn't been good that year. I guess... I guess seeing me like that must have been too much for her."

She fell silent again. Jack felt he knew her well enough to recognize that she was trying to pull herself together. When she spoke again, it was in a quick, clipped monotone. As if saying it this way could keep her from feeling the effect of her own words.

"She was paralyzed... she never could move or speak after that. And the winter was bad that year. Worse than any I remember. It seemed as though spring would never come again. Mama caught an illness in her lungs.

"The doctors..." Miranda paused, and Jack almost flinched at the anger with which she uttered that word, "The doctors did everything they could think of to her. As though bleeding a body already weakened by a stroke could somehow strengthen it. She didn't last the year.

The Lady brushed at her reddened eyes. "Mama never had the chance to tell me any of it - what I had to be strong for, what it was that had been sundered, and why it had to stay that way. Or even why it mattered so much that _I_ knew there was a stone hidden in that ring, and Elisse didn't.

"And papa had no knowledge of any of it." she went on with frustration in her voice, perhaps anticipating that Jack was about to ask this very thing. "Only that she'd asked him shortly before I was married to make certain that I was the one to inherit it."

"What about this sister of yours then," he asked, "If that ring was supposed to go to her first, maybe she knew more?"

The Lady sighed wearily. "Elisse is the eldest." she said as if this explained things. "And as such, she was mostly concerned about her status. It meant far more to her to be the firstborn daughter of a Count, really. I think the only reason why she felt slighted when I took possession of it was that the tradition was broken. She confided in me before that she always thought it was a vulgar, clumsy thing from another age. She swore she'd never actually wear it."

Miranda narrowed her eyes, averted her face from another gust of the feckless winds. "I'm certain that she didn't know any more than I do. Less, in fact, than I know."

She drew her knees up under her chin, wrapping her arms around her legs. Effectively closing herself off from him.

Jack left her to her thoughts for a time while he leaned back against the spar, joining up what she'd told him today with what he'd learned from her earlier recollections.

Any way he slanted it, the resulting picture didn't look very encouraging. For all intents and purposes, what he'd overheard while eavesdropping on Dunnthorpe and his odd-voiced friend had sounded nothing more mysterious than a greedy pair on a treasure hunt. Not so terribly different than seeking out the location of an 'island that cannot be found except by those who already know where it is'.

But like the reality of the curse attached to Cortez's gold, all of these signs were pointing towards something very unpleasant looming just out of view. At this very moment he found himself regretting ever having put in to Jamaica. Ever having involved himself and his ship with this woman and her ominous plight in the first place. If something of world ending proportions was about to descend upon them, Jack would have sorely preferred to be ignorant of it.

Or, at the very least, to know that he'd be spending his last moments with a bouncy wench and a bottle of his favorite.

"I don't know that I've ever remembered to thank you," said Miranda, shaking him from these dark musings. She was looking shyly at him. "For trying to help me, that is. You didn't need to endanger yourself."

Ah well... so much for self recriminations. "When this is all over, you'll have to have a talk with Elizabeth about that." He sighed, then went on in tones of affected nobility. "I just can't seem to turn my back on a fair lady in distress."

She smiled wanly. "You're presuming, of course, that I'll emerge from this alive."

"Well of course you will. I'm surprised to find your Ladyship ever doubting it."

Her eyes had that glassy look of someone trying to keep tears at bay.

"How can you be so certain? My loving husband on the one side looking for some idea of a hidden fortune, this creature that can command the winds apparently wide awake, and looking for Heaven only knows what on the other..." She trailed off, shaking her head in dismay.

"Ah, but you forget one very important thing, luv." He grinned, and nodded knowingly, "You've got Captain Jack Sparrow at your back now... how can we lose?"

Lord... did he just say '_we_'?

Oh no. This wasn't good. Now the Lady was crying, and he hated to see a woman cry. Never sure of what to do when the weeping started. But wait - she was crying... _and_ shaking with silent laughter at the same time. Truly, as long as he lived, he would _never_ understand these creatures!

"Come here, girl," he heard himself say, and held out his arms to her. "Just two old friends up here on this mast, and you look to be needing a shoulder right now. Come on," he coaxed when she only stared at him, "Nothin' more than that - that is, if you'll be willing to take the word of a black-hearted, lecherous pirate, of course." He widened his eyes dramatically, and waggled his head.

She hiccoughed out a nervous laugh, then scooted herself across to his other side, and leaned into his uninjured shoulder. "No," she said in a watery little voice. "But I will accept the word of Captain Jack Sparrow."

"That settles it, then," He draped his arm around her, and felt the tense set of her shoulders relax just a bit. "As long as I can trust her Ladyship to not be overwhelmed by my charmin' ways and try to take advantage of me poor, kindly self."

Miranda lifted her head, regarding him flatly. "I do believe I still have some dried peas somewhere on my person, sir."

Jack raised his hands in surrender. "Peace, Lady. I've every confidence in your honorable intentions - Ooof!"

She had jabbed her elbow into his side. Not with any great force, really, but just enough to let him know she'd retaliated. He took it in good natured stride, giving a brief squeeze to her shoulders.

How easy it was to forget everything when perched up here. No real pressing sense of time. No need to fill the silences with needless talk. Jack didn't have a clue as to how long they sat there, while the wind rose and fell around them in its unpredictable fashion, and the clouds moved slowly overhead. Only that his companion seemed to be far more at ease now with himself, and the world in general.

But then, trips aloft usually had the same effect on himself.

"May I ask you something?" she said after what must have been a long silence.

"I'm hardly of a mind to stop you, darlin'." Jack returned, and frowned as their sputtering breeze died again to a near calm. She sat up and faced him.

"This ship. The **_Black Pearl... she's_** not like other ships, is she?"

He met her eyes, brows raising. "What makes you say that?"

No one single thing, I suppose." Miranda shrugged. "I can't claim to know all there is about ship building, but... this isn't a 'young' vessel. She's built like - like something out of the last century. Only she runs as though she's narrower in the keel than a ship of this kind should be." Miranda looked confused. "I've been below. This hull was made for a fighting ship - the ribs are too large, too closely spaced to be for anything but combat, and yet..." She co,cked her head, and gestured at the air around her. "This is a heavy ship, and a large one as well. How is she able to move this fast?

"And since she is this fast," The questions were pouring out of her now, "Whose idea was it for the oars? I'd wondered what those smaller ports were for when I saw them, and -"

"Hold on!" he laughed, waving his hands to stop this sudden flood, "Slow down, slow down - you could drown a man in all these questions."

Jack settled against the spar, and stretched his legs out before him, considering what to tell her. In the end, he decided on the most unlikely of explanations.

He told her the truth.

"To be perfectly honest with you, luv, I've no idea."

She seemed disappointed, but still gave her attention.

"Always been this way though. Least wise, as long as I've know of the **_Pearl_**. Even when she was stolen from me, and 'Captain' Barbossa let her go all to hell, she was still the fastest under sail."

"And the most dreaded." Miranda informed. "Even the faintest glimpse of a black sail on the horizon was enough to send most running."

Oh, yes. Something that he still found himself confronted with from time to time. Hector Barbossa had cut a bloody swath throughout this region in his day. Far too many ships sent to the bottom with all hands locked below. Far too many towns and settlements hazed to the ground with appallingly few survivors to tell the tale.

What a waste. What a bloody, stupid waste.

But thankfully his ship was not the only one clothed in black. And now that the sails no longer resembled tattered grave clothes, as they had when his mutinous crew had scoured the Caribbean in search of an end to their curse, it was becoming easier to blend in as any other ship again.

"You know, for a while there," he admitted, "I had her dressed in white canvas on her Mainmast and Sprit. Never felt quite right, though. The **_Pearl's_** meant to be black, same as the day I first saw her."

"Love at first sight again?" his companion asked wryly, no doubt remembering the yarn he'd spun about his ill-fated **_Lily-Rose_**. Jack grinned back.

"Oh, far worse, Lady. Far worse. Haven't recovered yet."

But then, looking into her amused eyes, Jack once again found himself compelled to give the most unlikely of answers.

"Actually, if it's the truth you're wanting... first time I laid eyes on the **_Black Pearl_**, it was a terrible disappointment."

Her brows shot upward, and he shrugged in response. "Seems funny now, but I was a young fire brand back then. Eager to get another command after I'd lost my first ship, and I'd been a couple of years with Captain Joseph Davvick.

Old 'Lack-Ear', they called him. Got himself in a skirmish with the King's Navy, and lost an ear to a hail of grape shot. Norrington caught up with him about eight years ago back in the Commodore's lowly captaining days, but long before that, I'd served as old Davvick's First Mate.

"Well, I was spoiling for my own ship again, and Lack-Ear begins to worry I might just be elected leader in his place, so he offers me my own command.

"'Jacky, my lad', he says to me," Jack deepened his voice into a rusty, growling imitation of his former Captain, "'Ye got the look of a boy just beggin' to prove hisself. Well, I gots me just the vessel fer ye ta test yer mettle - long as ye don' get this one broadsided same as the last. Feast yer eyes, me boy. Feast yer eyes.'

"And so, I feasted my eyes."

"The **_Black Pearl_**?" Miranda curled her legs under her and waited for him to go on.

"Aye, lass. The **_Black Pearl _**- and a sorry sight I thought she looked, too. Listing there off the coast of Madagascar, a great, ruddy hole in her bow. Her sprit beam was hanging by a splinter, with all that black canvas half-furled like nobody gave a damn, and hanging there limp in the heat of the day. Thought to myself: What's old Lack-Ear playing at - trying to pawn off this old, broken down derelict on me? Probably so rotted through below the waterline that a good sneeze would capsize it."

He shook his head, marveling ironically at the memory. "And there's all my mates. Standing around laughing and pointing, telling me I'll be limping along behind the rest of our cohort, picking up whatever scraps were left floating. I wanted to pitch old Davvick right over the side then and there.

"So the next day, I took a little swim. Decided if the hull was in as bad a state as I'd figured, I'd tell my good Captain just what I thought of his offer, and find myself a better man to sail under.

"And do you know what I found?" he asked, dropping his voice to a near whisper, leaning closer to the Lady.

"No." Miranda's tone was equally hushed, her wide eyes fixed on his face.

"Found myself a hull smooth as a baby's bum. Clean as the day she was launched, I'd wager, and not a barnacle or wormhole to be found. I near about drowned myself that day trying to find some damage, or signs of repair, but..." He spread his hands, affecting a baffled expression. "Nothing. Except for that hole someone saw fit to put through the bow, there was nothing wrong with her. So, I climbed on board to see the rest of this mess I was going to find myself loaded with, and... that was it."

Miranda narrowed her eyes. "It?" she repeated carefully.

"It," Jack repeated with a nod. "Standing on that deck was like something... something out of a dream. A fever dream, if you like. I just... knew that this was where I was supposed to be. Even at a standstill there off Madagascar."

Jack closed his eyes, tipping his head back with a smile as the wind returned, steadily increasing.

"But the first time I took the wheel... ah, lass - how can I even describe it to you?"

Indeed, what words could convey it? The feeling was as clear now as it had been that first day, when this ship had seemed to come to life in the wheel in his hands, in the very deck beneath his feet, and he couldn't escape the idea that this strange, dark ship had somehow been waiting just for him. The world was suddenly a place of infinite promise on that day. Nothing was out of reach. Nothing was impossible.

"Was it like flying?" Miranda's voice came to him now. Soft above the sound of the sails.

"Flying?" Jack met her serious eyes, and remembered another day not that long ago spent on this very platform. There had been no mockery in her on that day, and should he speak his mind now, there would still be none.

Still... he couldn't bring himself to say it aloud. It was too dear a part of him. Not something to be displayed for the world to see. Too many years of mistrust. To fresh, even now, that sense of betrayal. He didn't lie to her... not really.

He just didn't tell her everything.

"Aye, lass. It's about as close to flying as an old tar like me is ever going to get." He looped his arm around her shoulders, and drew her back to his side again.

Easier to keep that part of himself locked away if he couldn't see those eyes of hers.

"And that's how I got the **_Pearl_**. Don't even know where she came from, or what she was called before. Just that soon enough, Davvick and the rest of his band got sick of me getting to the prizes before they could even pull along, and, er... _encouraged_ me to strike out on my own. Which was fine by me - if I'd wanted to spend the rest of my days risking life and limb so that old Lack-Ear's purse could get bigger, I'd have stayed in the merchant fleet, or joined the Navy.

"So, we parted from Davvick's company. Just me, a few mates who wanted to stay on, and..." He patted his hand fondly on the wood of the platform. "My '**_Pearl_** of great price'."

Miranda craned her neck to look up at him. "Is that what your ship is named for?"

"Heard a man telling a story once. A very long time ago it was, about some fellow who sold everything for a 'pearl of great price'. " Jack shrugged. "Guess it sort of stuck in my head."

She laughed softly, an odd expression on her face.

" 'The kingdom of Heaven,' " she began slowly. " 'Is like unto a merchantman seeking goodly pearls: Who, when he had found one pearl of great price, went and sold all he had, and bought it.' "

The very one! How had she known...

Miranda shook her head, smiling gently. "It's a parable, Jack. It's from the Bible."

"Ah." Well, that explained why he hadn't recognized the old man's story. Hard enough to make one' s way in this world without the image of a deity who would most certainly disapprove of him getting in the way of things.

"You were right," Miranda said then. "Up here, it does all seem clearer."

Jack smiled to hear his own sentiments shared. "Feel better?"

He heard a long sigh. Then, "When I don't have to think about it? Yes, I suppose I do. It's just..."

She sat up, frowning down at the planks beneath her hand. "It's frustrating to realize that there's something I'm supposed to have the answers to, and it's just not there. Like trying to identify a piece of music, but you're only allowed to hear one note from the third bar, another from two pages forward..."

He nodded in understanding. Then, another thought came to him; maybe he'd been asking her to go about this in the wrong way, wanting her to devote all her energies to recalling these all but forgotten memories. Unless he was very much mistaken, everything that had come to her so far had done so only when her mind was focused elsewhere: during that first meeting in the Great Cabin, at supper later that same night, and by her own admission, while mending in her shared cabin today.

The more he mulled this over, the more Jack was convinced that he was right.

"How's AnaMaria?" he asked out of the blue, surprising her with this sudden shift of topic.

"Her injuries, you mean? Quite well, actually. Better than I'd expected, come to think of it." Miranda brushed strands of hair back from her face. "I had her stitches out yesterday, and aside from some remaining tenderness, she'll be fully recovered in no time.

"But then, she is still quite young. Very strong, too. I've heard that you found this out first hand, as a matter of fact." This last was said with a faint spark of the Lady's mischievous humor.

"That girl's got a wicked right, and a temper to match." Jack remarked with a lopsided grin, seeing again the day he'd encountered his spirited First Mate on the wharfs of Tortuga with Will Turner at his side. "She nearly knocked me on my backside when we met again. Not once, but twice."

"Yes, " Miranda laughed softly. "I'd heard something to that effect." She leaned into his side once more, and her eyes lifted to the skies.

The clouds had drifted in to hide the sun, but it wasn't long before the power of that celestial body rimmed the entire cloud bank with a sharp line of gold. Light punched through, spreading out over ship and water in long, finger-like rays.

"Beautiful," she murmured, and as many times as he's seen this particular phenomenon, Jack had to agree.

"Almost like the hand of God, isn't it?"

Alright, so it was a strange kind of sentiment coming from a man such as himself, but as she'd seen fit to quote the scriptures to him, it was somehow fitting under the circumstances.

At least he thought so, until the small body at his side stiffened with a gasp. Miranda drew away, staring at him as though she'd never seen him before.

"Just something an old shipmate of mine used to call it," he explained, wondering what in the world he could have said to offend her.

"The hand of God," Miranda repeated with a shudder that rocked her. "No - the hand... of _the_ god!"

"Miranda, what -"

But the Lady was already on her feet, tugging at his arm until he rose as well.

"That's it," she exclaimed, suddenly pale. "That's what this is about, Captain. The 'finger of the god' points to the sun temple, remember? But it's pointing to the hand of the god - to itself. To the _rest_ of itself!"

"I'm not following you, darlin'," Jack confessed. She didn't bother to explain, but grabbed hold of the shrouds, plainly meaning to descend.

"Ooh, I hate this part," he distinctly heard her say as she stepped gingerly onto the lines. Then, "Could you... could you please help me down again?"

He shrugged and joined her, doing his level best to hide his amusement at her repeated reminders to herself. The low voiced mantra of "one hand for myself, one for the ship" accompanied him all the way down to the channel planks.

A short time later in the First Mate's cabin, however, Jack wasn't smiling anymore.

**A/N:** Bring on the drama, Michiru? If you insist. But you should be careful what you ask for...(evil grin)

Blueskiezrusty and Cold-blooded-angel: Thanks very much! Hope this one keeps you both as wrapped up!

Whoop! New blood in Hendercats! Wheee! Thank you very much!

Geekmama... SQUEEEEEE! I'm flattered beyond belief here! Folks, if you haven't read this lady's work, you don't know what you're missing - seriously! I just started through her saga myself, and all I could think was (cries) I'M NOT WORTHY! I'm very exited to find more examples of our minds being in the same gutter at the same time. (inside joke - don't ask, you'll sleep better!)

Wow... this'll make for 22 chapters - although this site thinks it's 26 - and close to 100,000 words... and I've got so much farther to go before I'm done. To be honest, I'm amazed I've made it this far. Thank you all for sticking this out with me, and I'll be back soon with the next installment. Thank you for sailing with Outlaw Jungle Cruises, and please be carful when exiting the boat...

...and please make a donation to the starving author fund by clicking that little box down there on the left! 


	27. Chapter 23

**Chapter 23**

Jack had no chance to question the Lady as Miranda swiftly led him below, and from the look of her as they passed crewmen working or at rest, she had no desire to speak before an audience.

Safely behind the closed door of her cabin, though, Jack was at a loss as to how to get a word in edgewise.

"The hand of _the_ god," the Lady said again with emphasis on that one little word. "That's what the symbol represents." Reaching into the case that held all those potions of hers, she withdrew the large ring that he realized he'd not seen on her hand since the day of that unnatural weather. Miranda pushed it into his fingers, speaking so quickly that he had to wonder if she feared forgetting before she could tell him.

"It never even occurred to me before you spoke of those clouds, but all at once, there it was. Something my mother must have told me once: Beyond the beloved land," she said in the tones of one reciting. "To the abode of sunrise - there in the golden walled home of the Sun Lord lies that which was sundered. Guard you well what you keep, and let not that which is sacred be _joined again _unto the hand of the god, lest all that is be made desolate." Another tremor rocked her. "Lest you awaken the wrath of the sleeper."

She paused, hugging herself tightly. "I was told that the ring holds the 'finger of the god', remember? Well," She waved a hand toward the ornament. "I guess this would answer as to why."

It didn't answer a thing in Jack's opinion. Not by a longshot, it didn't. But he brought the ring close to his eyes, squinting hard in the low light of the oil lamps at the tiny shapes etched into the golden dome. The stylized hand depicted there, with waves above, and... clouds above- seemed to dare him to unravel its meaning.

"You think this hand might be a larger part of the stone in this?" he asked, rubbing a finger over the marred surface.

"What else could it be, Captain? How else could that stone be 'joined again' to something, unless it was a part of it to begin with?"

He nodded sagely, watching surreptitiously as she moved nervously through the cabin, setting more of AnaMaria's lamps alight. The small room brightened, soon filling with the familiar odor of smoke and oil.

"But which god are we talking about here," he asked. "And what does it have to do with all the rest of this?"

Miranda growled a low sound of purest frustration.

"What precisely is it that you think I've been wracking my mind to discover," she snapped, pacing furiously in the small space. "Or are you insinuating that I've been treating these days as some kind of pleasant diversion? Some ninny-witted idiot of a woman out on voyage for a spot of fun with nothing better to occupy herself with than to trade witty barbs with you?"

Jack looked up, feeling his own temper begin to surge at the venom in her words. Then he took in the sight of her nervous, jerky movements, and the tight clasping of her white knuckled hands. This was not anger, he realized, but rather something very close to panic. Quickly arranging his expression into one of boredom, he folded his arms, regarding her with as much insolence as he could manage.

"No insinuations at all," he drawled coolly. "But if it's completely useless that you're wanting to make of yourself, then by all means, do carry on like this."

She froze in mid step, eyes flashing dangerously. Her mouth opened, and Jack braced himself for the angry flood that would surely pour out.

On the other hand, why not head this off right now, and save the trouble.

"Or will the '_noble_' Lady Warringford be treating us to a display of how you highborn types behave when the least bit of trouble comes abeam? If so," He flashed her the most irritating smirk that he possessed. "Would you mind just getting straight to it? After all, I am a busy man. Rather not be all day about this."

Miranda looked as though he'd struck her. With obvious effort she stiffly lowered herself to sit on the high lid of her sea chest.

"That was a hateful thing to say, Captain." she said reproachfully.

"Yes, I know. But it got your attention, didn't it?

"Deep breath, lass," he advised, a bit kindlier now. "I know you're in a bad way, but lose your wits, and you're sure to lose whatever advantage you have in this."

She only stared unblinking. No doubt deciding if it would be worth the effort to rise and strike him, or to simply hurl whatever heavy object lay in easiest reach.

"So this is how you've managed to stay one step ahead of the executioner."

She observed this with far less frost in her tone than Jack would have expected after what was tantamount to throwing a bucket of icy water into her face. He nodded approvingly.

"By keeping my head, you mean? Oh, yes," He tapped meaningfully at his temple. "Best weapon you can have, luv. But only if you're not too panicked to use it."

Miranda considered this, then lowered her head.

"A test that I seem to have failed just now," she murmured, almost to low for him to hear. "But no matter." Straightening in her seat, the Lady lifted her chin, and met his eyes squarely.

"I beg your pardon, Captain Sparrow. My behavior was deplorable."

"Oh, hardly that, Lady. In my experiences, 'deplorable behavior' usually goes straight past harsh language, and into grievous bloodletting. But either way," He gave a careless wave of his hand. "Already forgotten. Now," Taking a seat across from her, he held up her ring. "Where were we?"

Miranda focused on the bauble, then brushed wearily at her forehead.

"Which god, you had asked. I honestly don't have an answer for that, I'm afraid." Her hands were again clasped tightly in her lap. " The best I can offer is the idea that since the history of my family and that ring both lay in the Mediterranean, the identity of this so-called god must originate from that region as well."

"Must it?" Jack demanded. "Any other options you might not have considered?"

For a moment is looked like she would argue this. Then her face grew thoughtful. Rising from her trunk, she lifted the heavy lid, and rummaged briskly through the contents. When she straightened, it was with a sheaf of parchment in one hand, and a pen and small inkwell in the other.

"You packed stationary?" he laughed. Truly, this had to be one of the oddest women he'd met.

Miranda gave him a dry sort of look. "As opposed to my entire wardrobe, as you feared on Jamaica? This at least is useful." Seating herself at AnaMaria's little table, she readied her pen, hand poised over the clean page.

"Now, why don't we first add up what we _do_ know."

They did far more than add up in the next few hours. They postulated, debated, and argued their way through possibility after possibility, with the scratching of ink on parchment a steady counterpoint. She wrote while he read over her shoulder, or paced about behind her. And when she found herself out of ideas and took to pacing herself, Jack took her place, jotting down whatever thoughts hit them.

'Pre-Homeric' - now _there_ was a word he'd never thought to find himself scribbling, and yet there it was in his own hand.

"You can trace it back that far?" he asked, feeling an odd sort of thrill at the notion.

"And farther still," Miranda answered with a nod. "One of our legends tells of a queen of Attis who prayed for the safe return of her husband from the siege against the Trojans. It's said that she held up a 'sacred object' before the altar of her gods, reminding them that unlike those who had come before her, she'd not yet borne an heir to succeed her in guarding this... oh, how did that go again? Ah - this 'thing both sacred and accursed'."

The Lady gave a hollow laugh. "Apparently, the gods heard... to a point. Her husband perished outside of the walls of the doomed city, but his brother survived to take both queen and throne. They had several children, and she outlived him to wed twice more.

"Mellionphitre... that was her name." Arms once again wrapped around herself, Miranda stared off into space. "How Elisse would laugh when I'd stumble over that pronunciation."

Jack frowned. "But wasn't that war supposed to have been fought..." He paused uncertainly.

"Nearly three thousand years ago, Captain?" She seemed vaguely amused now. "Yes. And keep in mind that Mellionphitre was aware of this 'sacred and accursed' object having been passed down for generations before her."

Jack could only shake his head. Barely knowing his own parents as he did, now he found himself confronted with a woman who spoke as casually about a person who had been dust for millennia as he might have about an uncle or grandfather.

"It's odd, really," he heard her reflect, and felt the corner of his mouth twitch. What about this entire endeavor couldn't be considered 'odd'? But he kept that thought to himself as Miranda continued.

"You asked me some days ago if there was anything in my history that spoke of tragedies, or cursed lives."

"And you said it was quite the opposite, if I recall," he returned, which brought another faint smile to her face.

"Truly no harm done to your memory. But as I was saying, I couldn't help thinking about it afterward. I'm afraid that all I can come up with is a lengthy, rather dreary list: prosperous marriages, long lives - even in times when the plagues ran rampant, we seemed to have been disgustingly resilient."

He pondered that. "Doesn't seem to have been any real harm, then. But in all these stories of yours, there's never mention of a stone in this?" He tapped his finger on the dome of the setting. Miranda shook her head.

"Not a one. Every tale only describes an object of gold. It wasn't even referred to as a ring until after it was taken to Delphi. That would have been about..." Her brows drew together. "Almost a thousand years before the birth of Our Lord."

_Oh, is that all_, Jack thought wryly. _Practically last week, really_. But this was something else that he kept to himself. Aloud he said, "So near as we can tell, here's what we are fairly certain of: The stone in this," he held up the ring again. "Is the 'finger of the god'. Still the best way to describe that beam of light, eh?"

Miranda shuddered. He looked on sympathetically. Having something no more innocuous as a favored trinket suddenly sprout columns of light and call up a raging gale could not have failed to make an impression on the lass. Had he not survived things equally bizarre, he might have been just as unnerved.

But then, taking a sword thrust through the heart and walking away unscathed did tend to alter one's perceptions a bit.

"And that this finger points to a sun temple," he continued. "To a place where you're telling me a 'hand of the god' is hidden. That's what his Lordship's trying to get at."

"To the '_golden walled_ temple of the sun', Captain," she corrected with a bitter twist to her lips now. "And I'm not so certain that those words are just a fanciful embellishment on my mother's part. At least, I'm sure that Edward and his partner don't feel it to be an exaggeration."

Jack stared at her. "You mean that this golden temple may actually... could really be..." He halted, quite suddenly at a loss for words.

"Gold, Captain Sparrow?" Her brows lifted. "Why not? The people of old often had statues of their deities made in precious metals. One temple of Poseidon was reputed to be sheathed from floor to ceiling in gold, and his statues was draped with ropes of pearls the size of a man's fist. Another temple supposedly housed a silver idol twenty cubits high, with eyes made of two matched emeralds." She smiled impishly, seeing the impression her words made on him. "Imagine, if you can, just how large the eyes would have been."

Jack could imagine very well... and what a pretty picture it made for, too.

"That's -" His voice shook. Jack cleared his throat. "That's interesting," he observed casually, and noticed that his hands trembled as well. He disguised this by shuffling the sheets of parchment on the table. The Lady spotted it, though, and hid her amusement behind her fingertips.

"Moving on, then," Jack rumbled, making a valiant effort to recover his composure. A treasure worth more than this Lady's holdings, eh?

_Gold enough to outfit a building might just fit that description quite well, thanks very much_.

"Our murderous plotters may be after treasure, as you think, but we never got back to this so-called hand that's supposed to be hidden there. And what about this 'sleeper' fellow - where does he come into this?"

Miranda sobered immediately, returning to her seat atop the lid of her trunk.

"You've most of what I can recall written there before you. Bits and pieces, really, and not much help at all, I'm afraid. There was... there was a war... in the skies. Great beings struggling against each other. One was struck down. Stripped of his power, and..." She covered her face with her hands, then glanced up despairingly.

"Oh, this is so ridiculously vague. There's just so much that doesn't have any sense of reason to it - how is anybody supposed to make anything from this?"

"Keep your wits, luv," he reminded steadily. "You're doing fine. Now, this hand - could it be a weapon of some sort? Like Neptune's trident, or Jupiter's thunderbolts?"

"Poseidon," she corrected absently. "And Zeus. Or the bows and arrows of Artemis and Apollo... I suppose it could mean something like that. Only..."

"Only?" Jack pressed when she fell silent. "It makes sense, doesn't it? Some kind of weapon that was taken apart, and can't work unless all of it is put back together again. Too dangerous for the rest of the world, so it was hidden away, never to be seen again.

"That's what your family was supposed to do, I'm thinking... keep those pieces far away from each other. For that matter, this sleepy friend of ours could be after the same thing. Maybe that storm was his way of warning us from getting too close."

Miranda's eyes were lowered. Fixed, it would appear, on the ring that lay beside his hand. "I hear your words," she began slowly. "And they would seem logical. But -" Her hands lifted to her temples, fluttering in a helpless gesture. "But I just _know_ that this isn't the true answer. Only... whatever that real one might be, it won't come to me."

Jack sighed, dropping the pen from his fingers to rub his hands over his face. No, he hadn't really expected it to be this easy, but it might have been nice if that fragmented memory of hers would have been so accommodating as to at least throw out a few more helpful points in the right direction. Arguing about what these strange visions of hers _didn't_ mean looked to be about as ineffective as arguing what they did. When all was said and done, they were no closer to a solution now than when they'd started hours earlier.

"Are you very angry, Captain?" Miranda asked in a hushed voice.

"Angry?" Jack met her wide, anxious eyes. The Lady's face was drawn and pale, the tenseness of her hunched shoulders reminiscent of someone expecting punishment.

Again he silently cursed Dunnthorpe. His Lordship indeed had much to answer for.

"At you, lass? Hardly," he snorted, leaning back in his chair, and lifting his legs so that his booted feet crossed squarely over their carefully penned notes. Not a position from which to easily jump up and strike from. He hoped the Lady recognized this.

"But what is it with these old gods, Lady? Always throwing these nasty curses around at such... such _pretty_ things. If they wanted folk to leave something alone, why not turn it into something nobody cares about - a rock at the bottom of the sea, for example. Or a mountain of dung, for that matter, or anything else that nobody in their right minds would go anywheres near.

"But no, there's always gold involved, for some reason. Strikes me as terribly unfair, really. Must have been how they amused themselves, watching the poor little mortals scurry around, trying to touch fire and not get burned."

His rambling put her at ease. He watched the tension leave her, and at last, she smiled faintly.

"Yes," she agreed. "Terribly unfair of them."

He grinned back, and swung his legs to the deck while Miranda rose to collect her pen and inkwell, sealing up the latter to return both to her trunk. By unspoken consent, it would seem that this particular discussion was over.

He couldn't complain. They'd been at this for hours, after all, and he was now all too aware of the grumbling of his empty stomach.

"Here you are," Jack said, proffering her ring. She glanced once at it, and frowned.

"Just place it back with my medicines, if you'd be so kind."

He shrugged, and went to the familiar leather case beside her bed.

"As long as you can shake this aversion of yours when we catch up with old Gorsse, luv. Won't be of much good if you can't bear to show this to our best bet for a translator."

"When we come to that bridge," was her cool reply, voice still muffled in the hollows of her trunk. "I will worry about crossing it."

Most certainly a request that he mind his own business, evenly phrased though it was.

"As my Lady wishes," he returned dryly, peering into the crowded confines of her case. "But you should know that it's a bridge we'll be coming up on soon, so if you'll forgive my saying so -" He broke off, staring at what lay within the collection of bottles and flasks. Behind him, the Lady drew a sharp breath. Jack looked over his shoulder, seeing her still kneeling before the trunk, hands frozen in the act of returning some item or another. She steadfastly refused to look at him, and he could clearly see the color rise to stain her cheek.

"Have you decided to start your own collection of trophies," he asked lightly, depositing her ring amidst the bottles, and retrieving the item that had caught his attention. Turning, he extended his hand, holding out before him the very length of his own hair her near shot had cut from him on their first meeting. The silvery glint from the two coins bound there was like the greeting of old friends.

"Or is my Lady secretly trying her hand in the practice of Voodoo? Shall I wake one evening, and find myself a zombie bound to your service for all eternity?"

"Don't be absurd," Miranda scowled. "My girls discovered that in your clothes when we - when they cleaned you up. They thought it was something for the rubbish bin." She got to her feet, dusting her hands on the leg of her britches. "Every time I've thought to return it to you, something has always happened to distract me. But I had no intention of holding your keepsakes from you, sir."

"Oh, I've no doubt of it," Jack smoothly assured. Inwardly, however, it did please him to think otherwise. What with her obvious embarrassment, her need to explain herself, and the forced, overly formal way in which she did so...

_Methinks the Lady doeth protest too much_.

"Wouldn't dream of anything less from you. But do us a favor, luv." He closed the distance between them, and pressed the severed dreadlock into her hand, gently closing her fingers around it. "Seeing as you've been so kind as to look after my effects thus far, why don't you hang onto it. Just for now.

"And these little trinkets have always brought me luck," he added with a wink. "Could be they'll do the same for you."

Miranda shook her head, opening her mouth to refuse, but he merely spoke over her. "Good - that's settled, then. And may I say that I'm humbled by your gracious acceptance. Now I don't know about you, lass, but all this thinking's left me half starved, and I'm all for heading forward before Hischler closes up the galley. You coming? Guess not," he observed when she glanced despairingly at her dusty clothing. Although why her britches and waistcoat were acceptable for climbing up a mast, but not for sitting down to eat with the crew, he'd never understand.

"I'll have someone nip back here with a plate, then." Jack made for the door, fighting the urge to laugh aloud at the state he had her in now. Seeing as she'd left him off balance on several occasions, he felt it only right to return the favor. Pausing on the threshold, he glanced back to her.

"But you've hid out here long enough, luv. Not good to keep this up. I'll be expecting to see you out and about come morning, savvy?" He tipped his head jauntily. "Tortuga's coming up fast, so we'll discuss what's to be expected there over dinner tomorrow, you and I."

He didn't quite make an order of it, but the meaning was clearly implied. She didn't miss it, either, and bristled a bit.

"Until tomorrow, then," he said quickly. "Good evening, Lady."

With that, he departed, carrying with him the image of her perplexed expression, still holding the short length of his hair in her upraised hand.

o-o-o-o-o

**A/N:**That's all for this week. As always, thanks to all who have reviewed!

Hello, Wizard! Glad to have you aboard Outlaw Jungle Cruises. I'm Outlaw, your cruise director, and guide on this waterbound safari of... oh, sorry about that. Got the wrong ride going here. Now you're not out of chapters - unless, of course, you're reading this now, which means that... well... you're out of chapters again. But it's only temporary! Really! Thank you for letting me know what you think.

Kayden, I can't believe you subjected yourself to this all in one sitting! LOL! Talk about courage and fortitude! You _MUST_ be as crazy as me.

Michiru - you must have decided to beg off last week. The copious amounts of water falling from the sky probably had something to do with this, I'm sure. lol Maybe I'll be catching you this weekend. Yes, the drama is building... and the plot is thickening. Hope that's a good thing, because I've got miles to go before these people have had their final say in the matter. Jack's regrets... well, he is rather getting that feeling of being in a bit deeper than he'd meant to. And he thought this would be a _simple_ rescue. Silly man. He should know better by now! LOL! Looking forward to seeing this art piece you mentioned.

Hendercats: Yeah, the '_Pearl of great price_' reference is just too good to pass up. Couldn't resist it myself. And I sort of wanted to try for (what I thought might be) an unexpected take on Jack's first view of his beloved ship. Hope it worked out!

AJ-Sparrow and Bluegreenskye: So here's another chapter! LOL! Glad you're enjoying this read - I know _I'm_ enjoying writing it! Thank you again.

Geekmama: GASP! Shame on you! Reading it out of order. The horror... the shame! LOL! Ok, wierd even by my standards, I know. Thank you for that reminder on the differences of alter/altar... proof that I've been looking at this for waaaayyyy too long. You know, I've sweated over Jack's characterization from the start. It really helps to know that I'm keeping him true. Looking forward to having the chance to finish your first story - then, I can start on the many, many others I see lined up in your author's queue. LOL! I'll be busy for a while in that respect. Thank you again!

On a side note, I've got to say that I just love how this site shows up on Firefox. Soooooo much easier to format on this, than dealing with Safari or Explorer. Too many sites just don't like us Mac users. (sniff... sniff... Waaaaaah!

Join me again here next week, where we'll hear Jack say - well, you'll just have to tune in next time to find out, won't you? I know, I'm an awful person. (grin) Please leave all comments and complaints with the little rectangular box to your lower left!


	28. Chapter 24

**Chapter 24**

"Decide to follow some friendly advice, Lady?" the pirate asked over the blustery winds of a warm afternoon. Miranda had thought her steps quiet when she'd approached him at the bow, but somehow he'd known it was she. Eyeing his back archly, she rested her hands on the starboard rail.

"As you left me very little choice in the matter, Sir, I thought it best to put in an appearance before you had me dragged out from below by my hair."

Lowering his spyglass, Sparrow turned, giving her a deeply affronted look. "I'd have hoped by now that you'd know me better than that," he complained mournfully. But before she could apologize, he continued. "Slung over my shoulder with your rump in the air would be more in keeping with my way. What a fine, fetching sight it would make for, too." His eyes traveled over her in a way that sent a flush of heat through her, and he tipped his head toward her with a sinfully wicked smile.

"Sure my Lady wouldn't like to head back below so's I can find out for myself? I'm sure I could convince myself that I never saw you come up here."

Point and counterpoint. Miranda sighed, and told herself again that she should know better than to trade barbs with this man by now. It was far too easy a thing for him to turn her words back on her.

"You'll pardon me if I must demure, _Mister_ Sparrow."

He frowned at this address, but she only lifted her chin haughtily.

"Some other time, then," was his sulky concession. Then, in that mercurial nature of his, the teasing manner was cast aside. "I hear you've spent the morning with Rat in the surgeon's hold. The two of you concocting more vile brews to shove down our throats?"

"Why," Miranda countered with a raised brow. "Are you feeling feverish again?"

Sparrow shuddered dramatically, shaking his head and tightening his lips as though he expected her to pry them open and pour more bitter cinchona tincture into him right there on the spot. It was such a childlike action that she couldn't help but smile.

"No 'vile brews' to dispense today, Captain. I was simply there to see if I could aid Mr. Vinccensi in any way, and we ended up discussing surgical procedures." She paused, then on impulse added, "I think I was able to pass on some useful information that I've learned in the course of my studies of autopsy." At his look of incomprehension, she explained. "I have had occasion to assist in the dissection of cadavers. The experience was... illuminating to say the least."

The pirate wrinkled his nose, giving her so horrified a look that she couldn't contain her laughter this time.

"Oh, come now, how else are we to learn unless we see what makes us up?"

He only shook his head. "You must be made of iron, Lady."

This was said with a grudging kind of admiration. Miranda modestly lowered her head, secretly pleased by this concession.

"Actually, I find myself somewhat at loose ends, Captain Sparrow. There's not all that much use for a second physician on this ship, as it seems that you and your crew are all a rather healthy lot. More so than I would have expected from people who live the life of... er - that is to say - "

"Buccaneers, Lady?" he asked, flashing that easy grin of his. "Freebooters? Scurvy marauders of the sea lanes? Mangy pirates? It's alright, luv, you can say the word. It won't hurt my feelings. In fact, if it's technical you're wanting to be about it "

"Very well, very well. For pirates, then," Miranda snapped irritably, then wanted to kick herself for allowing him to provoke her so with his needling. Sparrow held up his hands, pantomiming the fending off of a blow, but his smile grew wider.

For another moment, Miranda entertained the notion of pulling that ridiculous leather hat down over his eyes, and pitching the man overboard.

Regrettably, prudence and her better nature won out.

"I remember riding to Port Royal," she told him. "To see what was left of Barbossa's men on the ship bound for London after their capture. A ghastly looking lot, really, and in far sadder condition than you and yours." She cocked her head curiously. "I wonder why that is?"

It was as quick as the snuffing of a candle. The affable expression vanished, replaced by a look so hard and cold on his handsome features, that Miranda felt chilled.

"A testament to the virtues of cleaner living, perhaps?" he said mockingly, lips now curling into a sneer. "Proof that all good little pirate lads and lasses should say their prayers and wash their faces before bedtime?"

Miranda averted her eyes, gripping the rail tightly. Whatever had taken place when Jack Sparrow lost his ship to mutiny was evidently still a very raw wound for the man. In spite of the passage of nearly three years since she'd heard of his escape from the gallows, and his regaining of the _Black Pearl_, his anger still remained.

And she had just reminded him of it. Again.

_Apologize_, her mind urged frantically. _Tell him you're sorry. That you didn't mean to intrude. For heaven's sake say_ something!

"You forgot 'eat everything on your plate'."

What?_ Why in the world would you say a thing like that? Oh, Miranda, you great, blithering idiot!_

"Pardon?" he barked, staring as though he couldn't believe his ears.

Miranda cringed inwardly. Why, oh why couldn't she have kept her mouth shut?

"Isn't that what they tell all good little childr - er... pirates to do?" she began lamely, glancing at his baffled face. "Eat everything on your plate because there are poor, starving... pirates in heathen lands?"

Perhaps were she to cast herself into the sea now, the_Black Pearl _would strike her as it passed and she'd not feel herself drown. An idea that became all the more attractive as the man only continued to fix her with his large, unnerving, dark rimmed eyes. Just when she thought she could bear his scrutiny no longer, Sparrow's mouth began to twitch.

Soon, a low, rather pleasant rumble of humor erupted from him. Miranda slowly relaxed as Sparrow leaned against the bulwark, actually shaking with mirth.

"Everything on your plate," he repeated, chortling as he wiped at his eyes. "By damn, woman, I'm sorely tempted to keep you here."

"Oh, and wouldn't that be a sight?" she retorted with a shake of her head. "The wayward child of the right and noble Lord and Lady Warringford a court jester to the Pirate King."

Quite a sight, to be sure. Certainly, Eleanor would faint on the spot, while Elisse would most likely die from the scandal of it. She reflected that it might be best to remind herself of this, and ignore the way her heart jumped at the thought of Jack Sparrow 'keeping' her.

"Pirate _King_, eh?" he voiced slyly. Giving her a speculative look, he smoothed his mustache with that preening gesture that was evident each time something flattered him. "Has a pretty sort of ring to it, wouldn't you say?"

_Oh dear_. He seemed so pleased with himself, toying with his mustache. Miranda half expected the man to force the ends of that hirsute appendage into an upward curl. Fortunately, she caught sight of a way to change the subject to something other than the pirate's favorite topic of himself. Shading her eyes from the glare of the sun, she squinted past him to the dark line at the edge of the horizon.

"Is that it? Is that Tortuga?" She spoke the name in a near whisper, fighting down a wave of dread at the thought of this, her destination. It was a long known fact that the little island was refuge to the seafaring marauders who preyed on those ships foolhardy enough to risk the Windward Passage without armed escort. To be even this near to such a place was far closer than she ever thought to dare.

Captain Sparrow followed the direction of her stare, glancing over his shoulder. "Not quite, luv. I make that to be the nor'western coast of Hispaniola. We'll not be catching sight of the 'old Tortoise' for another day, by that reckoning. In the meanwhile..." He turned away, giving his attention to some point off their larboard. "We appear to have picked up some company."

Miranda picked her way through stacks of neatly coiled ropes, crossing to join him at the bulwark while he peered intently again through his brass spyglass. "That's not a warship," she noted, focusing on the three-masted vessel whose present course paralleled their current heading. "I can't quite see their flag, though. The wind's wrong."

"Merchantman," he confirmed. "Had my eye on her for the past hour or so. British, by the look of it. If you know what you're looking at, you can tell by the way the jib lines are set. And they're showing just enough of their teeth to make it interesting for anyone who might risk running them down. See - the gunports are open." He lowered the spyglass. "They don't know what to make of us yet. We're not flying any colors, and their Captain knows he's in the Passage." His smile became that of a predator. "He's in a dangerous place. Our friend there is nervous."

The distant Captain wouldn't be the only one. Miranda felt her stomach lurch painfully as she waited for the man at her side to order his ship into pursuit. If it was Jack Sparrow's intent to take the Merchantman, what could she possibly say or do to dissuade him?

"Captain..." she began, disheartened, but at the same time the pirate turned away, hand cupped to his mouth.

"Mr. Gibbs," he bellowed. A moment later, Miranda heard the Quartermaster's cry of acknowledgment.

"She's a Blackbirder. Order the helm to keep our distance," Sparrow commanded, and nodded at Gibbs' faint return of "Aye, aye".

Miranda sagged with relief. On this day, at least, there would be no violent raiding. Then she caught the pirate regarding her oddly with that look of calculation that was somehow, at the same; time terribly somber.

"We're not here to ply our usual trade, savvy?" he said quietly. "Not today at any rate, Milady. And what they've got for cargo I want no part of."

With that said, he offered her his spyglass, extending his hand toward the merchant ship. Intrigued, she raised the cool metal to her face, wondering what could possibly induce this outlaw to dismiss a prize so easily.

It took her a moment to locate the vessel through the lens, but at her first sight of the gundeck she couldn't hold back a cry of dismay at the sight of so many bodies shackled together, moving slowly around the masts with shuffling, lethargic steps.

Naked in the harsh sun, their dark skin was nevertheless paled to an ashen, unhealthy gray. Even at this distance, Miranda could plainly see the stark lines of ribs in sharp relief, and the sunken eyes and gaunt jutting of cheekbones on faces bereft of all hope.

There were others that milled about the crowded deck. Men, whose pale skin held the ruddiness of those who had long been exposed to the elements. Men whose shabby clothing clung to frames far better fed, and in vastly better health than their captives.

One of these men - a tall, muddy haired fellow, abruptly lunged from his place, arm upraised. This he brought slashing down, the black length of braided leather in his hand cutting across the shoulders of one of the poor, wretched, chained souls. Miranda imagined that she could hear the crack of the whip across the water, and the cry of the man who had taken the blow as he staggered, falling out of her sight. His momentum carried those chained to him down as well, but that didn't stop their tormentor from bringing his whip down again and again. No one dared come to the aid of the fallen men. No one on the distant ship was spared the sight of this abominable cruelty. Not even...

Miranda choked on a sob. Oh, Heaven! - there were children there! Undernourished and scarcely more than babes, they too were forced to march aimlessly on the deck of the ship that had taken them far from everything familiar. Their stick-thin legs barely able to support them, they shuffled slowly along, cringing when their halting steps brought them too near those tall, red-faced watchers.

Sickened, she squeezed her eyes shut, wishing the pirate would take his infernal spyglass before she dropped it from her shaking hand. Grateful when he did so, for it left her free to brace herself against the sturdy timber, and to fight the sudden urge to empty her stomach into the clear Caribbean waters.

"Apologies," Sparrow muttered after a time. "I wouldn't have thought you'd take such a bad turn from it."

"How could one not," she snapped, angry that the man didn't simply inform her that it was a slave ship off their side. "And we dare to crown ourselves with such lofty titles as 'enlightened', and 'civilized' when practices such as this are allowed to continue? Merciful God - is this the eighteenth century, or ancient Rome? Vile, barbaric..." She sputtered to silence, unable to find a strong enough perjorative to suit her feelings.

The pirate regarded her silently, the hint of a smile playing about his lips. Miranda's temper surged.

"What," she demanded coldly. "Are you looking so pleased about?"

Sparrow's brows lifted. "Oh, nothing in particular. You just never struck me as the type to be an abolitionist. I just couldn't help but wonder if this was why you ended up buying my First Mate."

Miranda immediately schooled her features into her familiar, well-practiced mask of neutrality.

"Now don't go doing that, girl," he protested. "I only asked her the one time to find out how you two knew each other. You said yourself you'd emancipated her right after. Remember?" he prodded gently. "That day in your garden?"

Had she? When had they met in the garden?

Oh yes... the day she'd said goodbye to the kindly old man who had taught her so much. She'd known that Master Zheng's departure would be difficult for her, but she hadn't expected the loss to feel quite so sharp. It had also been the day that Edward had forced his way into her home; a terrible, wrenching day that had upended her world.

But Jack had been there on that day, walking beside her among the trees. Flapping his arms at her horse when Reisen had found the long ropes of his hair, and the colorful beads and shiny coins to be quite irresistible. The pirate had called rather plaintively for her to come to his rescue, and in the time that had followed, Miranda remembered that this was when she'd first begun to feel at ease with the man.

At least until he'd accused her of only aiding AnaMaria to ensure the health of a returned piece of property. That had angered her deeply, she recalled, and she'd responded in kind. But then, after all, he hadn't known any better.

Perhaps he should. It was certainly not something she felt ashamed of.

"Have you ever had occasion," she began carefully. "To know the kind of mind that believes truly believes that they own another person?"

He nodded slowly. "I myself was apprenticed once as a child to a harsh master, but that's not quite the same."

"No," she agreed. "It isn't. No matter who or what those people on that slave ship were before they were dragged from their homes, when they reach the block they'll be seen as no more than merchandise. Not even the right to be thought of as human beings, but as some lesser creature instead. Lesser even than myself."

He snorted derisively. "Lesser? How is it that you'd be thought of as - "

"I'm a woman, Captain Sparrow," she interrupted. "And as such, by the laws of the Realm and by all the nations of Europe, for that matter you as a man, scofflaw though you may be, are entitled to far more rights of recourse than I."

He frowned at this, but gestured for her to continue.

Miranda clasped her hands, and drew a deep breath.

"I shouldn't even have been to port that day. I make it a rule to never go near the slave markets. But I had to meet a representative from father's company. Accounting technicalities that needed hammering out, and the like, and his ship was delayed due to foul weather. By the time our business was concluded there was an auction in progress. I heard that wretchedly happy man up there on the podium say something about a 'fine young girl, perfect for a household', or some such rot, and couldn't keep from looking." She felt her eyes sting at the memory, and turned her face away. "And that's when I saw her. Just a child... all arms and legs in that rude smock they'd given her to wear. Her eyes... she was trying so very hard to be brave to not show just how frightened she was, but... " Miranda looked up, finding the pirate's dark eyes fixed intently on her.

"Oh, Captain she was terrified. Shaking like a leaf in the wind, and looking at all those strange, staring faces with those enormous eyes of hers... she quite broke my heart, I'm afraid.

"And when the bidding began in earnest, I just remember glancing about to the people there, and " She broke off, drawing another long breath to steady herself.

"One of the bidders was a representative for a family of whom the lady of the manor had the reputation of such bitter harshness towards her maid staff, that no self-respecting girl would tolerate the position for long, no matter how much she was paid. If that woman got her hands on this child, as a slave, she would have no recourse. Another bidder was a neighboring land owner. A sugar plantationer. But the way he was looking at her..."

Miranda shuddered. That fellow had eyed the child far too avidly, and her skin crawled anew at the memory of how he had licked his lips as he called out his offer.

"You've looked at her, Captain. You've seen what a beautiful young woman AnaMaria is."

"Aye, that I have," Jack agreed softly. "Though I'd never be mad enough to tell her to her face," he added with an overly played look of dread. Miranda felt herself smile.

"Well, she was equally so as a child, and that plantationer was not the only one to notice. I... I simply couldn't allow any of them to put their hands on her."

"So you outbid them, then."

She nodded. "And had her emancipation papers drawn the same day." No need to tell him of the venomous words that certain individuals had flung at her, nor of the odd looks from the office that had prepared the documents that declared her new purchase to be a freed individual.

"Ah." He cocked his head. "So it was you that taught her how to read, was it?"

"Well, yes. Why not?" Miranda spread her hands. "Hannah, myself, and some of the other girls with me at the time. We had to teach her proper English, as she'd come from a Cuban plantation, and it was just as easy to teach her letters as well. A good advantage for her to have, and Ani was a very quick study."

But Sparrow had straightened, his expression one of dawning realization.

"You're seeing it now, aren't you?" she asked shrewdly. "It took time for me to notice it too. Ani's not entirely Negro - her father was a Spaniard. Possibly one of the overseers of the plantation she came from, but more likely the owner himself. When I asked her where her family was, and where she'd come from, she only knew that her mother worked in 'the big house'. That the Señor had a scratchy beard, and liked to perch her on his knee, and pinch her, and give her sweets, but the 'white-faced' lady who lived there didn't like her very much."

She shook her head, feeling her insides twist. "Put the pieces together, Captain. He got one of his house slaves with child, and when it threatened to become an embarrassment to him, had his own daughter sold like cattle. His own daughter! But he'll never see it in that light, will he? After all, they're not _really_ people, are they? Just slaves. Just property."

Jack sighed, eyeing her with a rather sad look. "You won't be able to change the world, Miranda. You know that."

"Yes. I suppose I do." Miranda flushed at how high minded she must have sounded, but set her jaw defiantly. "But I can change my part of it, can't I?"

"Aye. That you can, Lady." He smiled warmly. "And may I be so bold as to say that I like what you've done with the place?"

Quite in spite of herself, Miranda felt the corners of her mouth lift in response. After another moment warmed by the smile he favored her with, Miranda grew restless. Fearing that her face might give away just how much she welcomed his approval, she decided that it was time to retreat before too much was said.

"Since we are approaching a port, at least temporarily, do you think there might be a ship there bound for Jamaica? I do want to get word to my people. Poor Hannah must be beside herself after all this time."

He shrugged. "Oh, I'm sure we can find someone who's up for carrying a letter. Just bear in mind that these won't be the most... er reputable of gentlemen. And as we're not exactly sure of just where his Lordship has gotten himself to..." Sparrow trailed off with a meaningful nod.

"Understood. Nothing of too personal and descriptive a nature, is that what you're saying? Very well." Miranda turned away. "If you'll excuse me, Captain, I shall endeavor to compose a very bland and nondescript missive before joining you for dinner."

"Why did she run, do you think?"

The question brought her to a halt. Brought her around to face him again. It was a question that had troubled her thoughts often in the years that had passed. "I've not asked her that," she admitted with a frown. "And she's never told me. Perhaps she felt that I'd abandoned her when I left on my first crossing to China. But in any case, even as a freedwoman, can you honestly imagine AnaMaria as anyone's servant?"

He appeared to think about it, then rubbed at his chin. "She wouldn't keep to the code, you know."

Something in his eyes told Miranda that to make this admission was terribly foreign to him. Something that he would not usually choose to speak of aloud.

"By all rights she and Joshamee should have left me to the noose, and kept the _Pearl_ for themselves." He paused, then lowered his eyes. "I'm glad she ran."

Did AnaMaria know, she wondered, the depth of gratitude this man felt toward her? Certainly by the way he appeared now, it was not an emotion he was comfortable with feeling.

"And when Ani needed aid, you wouldn't keep to your code either," she reminded. Miranda considered him, and thought of all that had transpired from the day that had led from his first appearance on her doorstep, to this one.

"I'm glad she ran too, Jack. I'm glad."

She left him there at the bow, determined to bend her thoughts to the task of how she could best subtly reassure her people of her continued well being while simultaneously warning them to remain cautious. With any luck at all, this would be a simple thing. The most taxing endeavor left for her today.

In retrospect, Miranda would tell herself that she should have known better.

o-o-o-o

* * *

o-o-o-o 

**_A/N:_** And here's where I leave you this week, gentle readers. A very special thanks to Scarlett Burns, and now also to Geek Mama for their invaluable aid in making these chapters look less... ditzy. Thank you both! (yes, I have a "thanking people thing"... sue me! lol!) Wow! Two beta readers... think I've hit the big time, folks.

Either that, or these two are very masochistic. LOL!

Now... on to more thanks!

HIMluv: Welcome! You had to slog your way through a heck of a lot of pages to get to this point. I do hope you're prepared for the long haul, because I have quite a ways to go. And I feel it only fair to warn you - ALL of you - that things are about to get very... interesting. But thank you very much for your compliment! It's been my biggest hope in this to keep Jack in character, so it's wonderful to hear that you think I'm doing right by him.

Wizard: LOL! Well... to be truthful, this is the furthest I've made it in writing anything out like this. Starting is the easy part. Keeping it going... that's a whole 'nother mountain to climb. But I've made it this far. Have no real desire to turn back now.

And it's another mark in favor of the dried peas. LOL! For some reason, that's really seemed to get to a lot of people. By far the most popular incident... even more so than the smoochies. Hmmm... not sure how I feel about that. I think I feel a pout coming on.

LOL!

Kayden Eidyak: This updated soon enough for you? (grin!) And be of good cheer - there IS another one already written for next week. The next couple of weeks, actually. YAY!

GeekMama: I'm just glad you're enjoying this as a story, as opposed to just looking out for my gramatical, typographical, and punctuational (is THAT even a word? well, it is NOW!) errors.

See you all next week, and please make a donation to the little box on the lower left. Remember, there are poor starving childr - er... authors in heathen lands. (Hey... Southern California definately qualifies for that description!)


	29. Chapter 25

Disclaimer: Vanessa owns Johnny, Disney owns Jack, Jack owns me, and I own my dreams. Savvy? Glad we're square on it.

**Chapter 25**

Jack watched the Lady as she made her way aft, noting that those of his rough and tumble crew who encountered her along her path gave way as smartly as any courtier - if not as floridly. Far from oblivious or merely accepting these gestures as something due her, Miranda acknowledged each and every man. Some with a nod, others with a word, or even a smile to judge from the bemused look of old Quartetto.

All well and good to his mind, as he returned his attention to the slave ship. The men had lost their initial misgivings about the noblewoman's presence shortly after she'd made a point of breaking bread with them at mealtimes. Her efforts on their Captain's behalf at Havana had only deepened their acceptance of her, as did her seeming inability to look down her nose at them.

No... that was an attitude the Lady Miranda reserved solely for himself, Jack thought ruefully, but even that was just another step in the dance that the two of them moved through - and he had to admit that he did so enjoy ruffling her feathers.

The Blackbirder turned away from them now, showing her stern as those aboard made to put some distance between them.

Also well and good. While it had been something of a temptation to pull along and liberate his fellow seamen of their coinage - and whatever other items of interest they may carry Jack knew all too well that given a reason for speed, a slave ship would sooner pitch its living cargo over the side to lighten the load rather than surrender. He could live with blood on his hands... just not that kind.

It looked to be clear sailing straight to Tortuga, with open sea-lanes, and fair weather. What sailor could ask for more?

Scarcely had this thought crossed his mind, when several things happened in rapid succession.

"Sail ho! Sail ho!" he heard a high voice cry. Looking up, Jack spotted an arm waving from the crow's nest atop the main mast.

"Where away?" he called up.

"Off the windward side, Cap'n," Mr. Gordon called, scrambling monkey-like down the ratlines. "They're coming up off our starboard, Cap'n. Right for us out of the passage!"

Jack quickly crossed to starboard, spyglass raised for a first good look at the newcomer. Spotting it, he swore under his breath. The other ship was heading right to them, sure enough: a smaller fore-and-aft rigged vessel with all sails set and running hard. The sound of panting beside him told Jack that young Mr. Gordon had joined him at the rail, and from the heavy footsteps that followed, others were lining up beside him.

"What were you doing up there, boy?" Jack barked, staring at the ship that was unmistakably bearing down on them. "They're almost on top of us!"

"Sorry, Cap'n," the boy stammered. "Had my eye on that merchantman. How come we let 'em go?"

"It's a slave ship, boy," Jack heard Gibbs inform. "An' I don' know about you lot, but I prefer my take o' a haul in silver 'n gold, not flesh."

Other voices muttered their agreement, and Gordon hung his head.

"I won't let you down again, Sir."

Jack turned a stern eye on the lad. "That being said, you'd best take your tailfeathers right back up there, boy. I need your eyes where they'll do the most good."

The youth straightened immediately. "Aye, Cap'n!" he shouted, and rushed away.

"So who're we lookin' at?" Gibbs demanded, squinting his blue eyes at the schooner. Jack peered through the glass.

"Not Navy," he announced, and several men released their breath in rushes. "A Spaniard by the make of her, but..." He broke off, staring harder at the battered, splintering figurehead of a bare-breasted woman at the prow. Her carved attributes jutted proudly, despite the paint that had long since chipped away to reveal the half rotted wood beneath.

"I know that strumpet," he said bitterly, letting his disgust show. "It's the '_Mautre de Nire_' - De Garonne's ship." He might have found the groans that followed this announcement humorous, were he not so busy cursing the luck that had conspired to put Henri de Garonne in the same waters at the same time as himself.

"Inn' he the one tried putting a shot through you a few years back?" Gibbs asked with concern. "Thought he'd taken hisself off to Madagascar."

Jack grinned tightly. "He did put one in me. Got it into his head that I might make a go at taking his place, for some reason." He turned to the Quartermaster. " 'Nother day or so and I might've pulled it off, too. Not very popular with his men, Henri was. You think he wants to reminisce?"

Gibbs snorted. Then, "He's still a ways off, Jack. A bit more cloth'd make it hard for him to make up the distance."

"An excellent idea, mate," Jack agreed, still eyeing the _Mautre de Nire_ - the 'Laughing Murder'. Well, de Garonne never did have much by way of imagination. Save for overestimating his own importance, that is. "In fact, why don't you and the men see to that right -"

"Cap'n Sparrow Cap'n!" young Gordon cried from above. "The Blackbirder, Sir she's gone hard over, and she's not alone now!"

As a man, they moved to the larboard side.

As reported, the slaver had veered sharply over, presenting a gun-laden profile to yet another vessel. This ship - a fore-and-aft rigger same as Garonne's - looked to be readying to try its luck against the slaver's cannons.

But at the last moment, the smaller ship broke from its attack, spilling the wind from the triangular sails as the bow swung over and away from the merchantman.

Straight for the _Pearl_.

"Jack..?" Gibbs looked nervously from one approaching schooner to the other. Jack watched as the newcomer tacked swiftly their way, training his eyes on the pair of ensigns flying atop the main mast. The larger, topmost flag he recognized as the emblem of that posturing idiot, de Garonne: a red flag emblazoned with a white, leering death's head.

This ship was sailing under Garonne's colors. The surly Frenchman had managed to collect himself a cohort.

He focused on the smaller, darker ensign flying just below the first. This one was black, on which the white figure of a horned skeleton impaling a hapless seaman on an ancient three-tined spear leapt out at him.

"That's Annie Robert's ship," he announced with dismay. Gibbs turned, thunderstruck.

"Annie... Black Nan's ship - the _Trident_?"

Jack nodded, seeing in his mind the solid, swarthy form of the brash Scotswoman who commanded the oncoming vessel.

"You've no quarrels with Black Nan," Gibbs sputtered unhappily. "An' she bein' a privateer now, and all. Why's that woman raisin' her colors on us?"

"T'ain't her, Joshamee." Marty stepped up beside them, hauling his stunted body up onto the bulwark. "Heard about it from a friend in Havana. Nan took the fever a few months back while the _Trident_ was holed up in the Caymans. Told me the First Mate clasped on to the chance t' take over, since no one in their right minds crosses Nan when she's whole. Got the men thinkin' it weren't right them takin' orders from a woman and all." He turned his grim face to them. "They smothered her. In her own bed, they did, the bloody cowards."

"And now they're keeping company with de Garonne," Jack finished flatly. A cold knife twisted in his guts. Nan may have had a face like a hatchet, skin like old boot leather, and a booming voice that could strike a gunner's mate with the tremors, but she had been a friend. That her crewmen had taken it upon themselves to treat her in such a fashion was something he took rather personally just then. "Well, if these fellows are thinking the _Pearl_'s an easy mark for them, then - "

"The other ship, Cap'n!" Mr. Gordon hailed again from the crow's nest. Jack looked up to see the lad's arm gesturing frantically to starboard.

"Oh, bugger," Joshamee growled. He had reason to. The _Mautre de Nire_ was announcing her Captain's intentions in the form of the large red flag now ascending the mast. The meaning was plain to every man of them: no quarter given. Surrender, or die.

"We don't prey on each other, you sodding French whoreson!" Gibbs bellowed in protest, shaking an upraised fist at the rapidly gaining ship. "Jack, what..?"

Jack scowled, mind racing as he weighed his options. Both ships were smaller, lighter than his own. And from the look of them, de Garonne had them running higher in the water than any self-respecting Captain should. Though as a result, it was entirely possible that the French pirate and his cohort could run him down. And there was the small matter of the winds, which were presently more in their favor than his own. A fore-and-aft rigger could sail much closer to the wind than his own square-rigged _Pearl_. Right now... his options weren't looking well at all!

"Answer them," he said finally. "Run up our colors. We still outgun him, let Garonne think on that for a while." Turning, he bellowed aft. "Helm, hard a-lee, and don't spare her." His call was echoed all the way down the length of the ship, and Jack started back as well. "Hands to braces, you dogs, we'll crowd on more sail."

He paused amidship, stomping his foot at the main hatchway. "Up," he called to the nightwatch asleep below. "All hands up, or we'll all be sleeping at the bottom tonight! Sam!"

"Here," the gunner returned, pressing his way through the rush of crewmen racing for the masts. Jack hooked his toe into the grate, kicking it open.

"Get us ready, lad."

Sam didn't answer, but practically threw himself down the companionway. Jack could hear the gunner calling for his mates over the scrambling of the newly awakened men just emerging up on deck. He swayed as the _Black Pearl_ heeled sharply over, and pointed up to the spars

"Studding sails," he barked. " Top gallants, sprits - every spare inch of canvas we've got."

"You heard 'im," Marty roared from halfway up the ratlines. The little man brandished his marlingspike over his head, face set in an awful grimace. "Move yer tails, you sorry gobs, or it's your hides I'll be usin' for sailcloth!" Behind the Bo'sun a length of black silk unfurled in the wind, revealing the white skull and crossed swords as the _Black Pearl_'s flag rose high into the gusting air.

Jack ran aft, taking the steps to the quarterdeck two at a time. AnaMaria stepped aside, surrendering the helm to him.

"What's going on," she asked worriedly. "Who are they?"

"We're in trouble," he evenly returned. "An old acquaintance of yours - Henri de Garonne."

AnaMaria blanched, but recovered quickly, eyes flashing and face stony. "Then maybe I'll just finish what I started, and carve his eyes out," she pronounced with a voice like steel drawn from a scabbard.

Jack grinned his approval. It was quite the tale in Tortuga of the day when the drunken Frenchman had encountered a younger AnaMaria. Thinking her to be a helpless lad, de Garonne had cornered her with every intent of imposing himself upon her person. He'd quickly discovered that AnaMaria was neither a lad, nor helpless. The scar that bisected his face from left eye to right ear gave testimony to this.

Jack cocked his head, testing the pull of the wind, and swung the wheel in a desperate attempt to fill his sails. They might end up far off course, but they'd reach Tortuga intact if the winds held.

It wasn't enough. The _Mautre de Nire_, quartering up from astern, drew steadily nearer. Off their larboard, the _Trident_ did the same, and worse in an effort to get the wind at their stern, and remove themselves from the perceived threat of three ships all flying pirate colors, the slave ship would soon be in danger of colliding with the _Pearl_!

"Wave them off," Jack shouted. "Wave 'em off, Joshamee! God's Wounds, can't they see no one's chasing them?"

Down on the gun deck, Gibbs released his line and ran forward, waving his arms and bellowing at the merchantman. Others joined him, but the slaver stayed to its course, and Jack found himself faced with two choices: give way and lose speed, or risk fouling his sprit in the other ship's rigging, hopelessly entangling them both.

No choice at all. He threw his weight at the wheel, bringing the _Black Pearl_ hard to starboard. AnaMaria threw in with him, and the _Pearl_ turned, heeling over with her sails fluttering as the wind struck them head on.

"All in the wind!" Mr. Cotton's Parrot shrieked, leaving the mute's shoulder to wing overhead. "All in the wind!"

"I know that, you daft bird!" Jack snapped. "Tearlach?"

"All ready here, Cap'n," the brawny man called. He and the other gunners stood ready at the upper cannons, while Marty and Cotton left the masts to man the small swivel guns at the stern. "And Sam's all primed below."

But they'd run out of time. The _Mautre de Nire_ coursed easily along to one side, while the _Trident_ mirrored de Garonne on the other. Both ships' gunports yawned wide as the two schooners moved in wide, lazy arcs around the _Pearl_, and the jeering of the men aboard filled the air.

On the deck of the Frenchman's ship, a florid, foppishly attired figure stepped to the railing, a speaking trumpet raised to half-cover the face.

"Strike your colors, Sparrow," de Garonne's amplified voice advised with barely concealed glee. "Surrender now, and I won't have to blast that fine ship to the bottom."

"What are you after, de Garonne?" Jack shouted, and saw his opponent scowl that he felt no need for artificial enhancements to make his voice heard. "You know the Code - no haven of ours'll have you after this!"

De Garonne's sneer was obvious even from t his distance. "After today, Sparrow, I'll have no need of these filthy English outposts ever again. As to what I'm after... well, I had thought of claiming that fine, fast ship of Barbossa's. It would make a delightful flag ship, _vous pensez_?"

Jack's blood turned to ice in his veins. Convulsively, his hands gripped tight to the wheel.

"But as I've just outpaced you, I think it's proved who's ship is the better, yes?"

Jack bristled inwardly at the slur. Had that twice-bedamned Blackbirder not gotten in the way, they'd not be having this conversation.

The Frenchman made a show of tapping the mouthpiece of his silvery trumpet thoughtfully against his chin. "Instead, I make a bargain with you. An accord, as we say." De Garonne paused for effect, buffing his cuff over a bit of gold embroidery on his sleeve. His ship crossed the _Pearl_'s bow, and turned slowly down her larboard.

"I'm listening," Jack intoned, struggling to keep the edge from his voice. The Frenchman hadn't lost his posturing ways in the years since their last encounter.

De Garonne smiled, which had the unfortunate result of causing the scar across his face to pucker horribly. "I let you live if you give me two things... just two simple things: I want that little compass of yours that I hear so much about. They tell me it shows you the way to Barbossa's hoard, yes?"

As soon as he possibly could, Jack vowed silently, he would find a way, come hell or high water, to slip past the British line, collect every last ha-penny from the Isla de Muerta, and allow himself and his mates a wild time of carousing to spend every last bit of it, thus eradicating all rumors of a secret hoard. Though it was almost a temptation to give the Frenchman the bearings - the thought of Henri de Garonne whiling away a few years under the Aztec curse was a warming one.

But no. Jack reasoned that even he wasn't mad enough to release another Hector Barbossa onto an unsuspecting world.

"And the other?" he pressed finally. De Garonne's face grew alight with savage intent. Raising a hand, he pointed to the tense figure at Jack's side.

"I want that _chienne_ - that little hellcat there," he said smugly. "You think I forget you, _mon petit_?" De Garonne traced a finger over his scar, and leered. "You owe me for this. Now, I collect."

AnaMaria stepped forward, her hands balled into fists. "Did your catamite finally decide to slit his own throat rather than let you touch him again?" she called derisively. Across the water, the Frenchman's face grew dark with rage.

"Decide, Sparrow. Your compass and that slut - or your lives. I give you..." He paused again, and pulled a fancy little pocket watch from his brocade coat. Jack wondered how much blood had been shed to get that expensive little bit of shine into the Frenchman's hands.

"Five minutes," de Garonne finished brightly. "On the sixth, my ships rake your sides, and send you straight to your Davey Jones. Decide," he repeated, then spun with a flourish and left the rail.

Jack heard a steady stream of muttered curses at his side. AnaMaria turned slowly in place, following the path of de Garonne's ship with murder in her eyes.

"Let me know when you run out," Jack told her. "I've got a few more you can use. Won't even charge you for 'em."

She smiled weakly, beads of perspiration standing out on her face. Wiping her cheek with her sleeve, she tried without success to hide the shaking of her hand. "Maybe Joshamee was right about having a woman on board."

"Now don't go giving up on us yet, darlin'," he admonished. "We've still got a few minutes, after all."

Gibbs bounded up the steps, weathered face like a thundercloud. "Jack, we'll not be handin' her over to those animals!" he exclaimed. AnaMaria blinked in surprise at the vehemence in the Quartermaster's voice.

"Now don't be gettin' soft on me, girl," he chuffed. "A right pain in the arse, you are, but you're our pain in the arse."

"Thanks," she returned dryly. "Heard you say something once about a 'Devil's Dowry'. Any ideas?"

"All out," Gibbs admitted. "An' we sure as shine could use one right now."

"No," Jack shook his head. "What we could really use is a tempest in a bottle."

The moment the words left his mouth, Jack stiffened. AnaMaria gasped, and he raised his eyes to hers, mutual understanding flashing between them.

"You _are_ mad!" she whispered, her expression torn between horror and wonderment. He reached out, one hand gripping her shoulder.

"Sorry, darlin', but there's just nothin' to be done about it." He pitched his voice to carry, and lowered his head, feigning regret. "Nothin' personal, luv. That's just how it is." Then he pulled her closer, aware of the many eyes trained on them from the circling ships.

"Get below and tell her. She won't like it, but make her understand. I'll send some men down when we're ready. _Go_!" he hissed. "And make it look good, darlin', or we're all finished."

AnaMaria nodded once, then wrenched her shoulder free of his grasp. One arm drew back.

_"**You backstabbing bastard!**"_

Jack was sure that the sound of her palm as it impacted off his cheek could be heard halfway to Bristol. He staggered against the helm, and shook his spinning head.

Quick as lightning, AnaMaria's pistols were drawn and swinging to cover himself and Gibbs.

"First one of you tries putting hands on me'll be meeting Old Scratch when he wakes up next!" she shrieked, backing down the steps.

"Now, lassie," Joshamee began, playing along for all he was worth. "Don't make this any harder on yerself." He took an aborted step toward her, and the First Mate sent a single shot buzzing over his head. Turning, she bolted for the aft hatch, and vanished through it.

Gibbs returned to his Captain's side, scowling darkly at the raucous laughter from de Garonne's men. "Think that looked good enough?" he growled under his breath.

Jack rubbed at his stinging cheek. "Too good, I'd say. The girl's not lost her touch." Then he raised his voice again. "Can't be rid of the wench soon enough. Nothin' but trouble, havin' a woman aboard. May as well shorten our sails, lads. We'll not be going anywhere for a while." Gibbs started, but forced himself to speak quietly.

"Hope ye know what yer doin', Jack. That last time almost rolled us." Then the grizzled seaman left him, shaking his fists at the startled crewmen staring up at them. "Are you deaf?" he thundered. "Cap'n says reef in, so get yer scurvy rumps aloft an' do it!"

"Three minutes, Sparrow," de Garonne announced through his trumpet. Jack scanned the deck of the_ Mautre de Nire_, finally spotting the Frenchman amidship. "Not much time left," the scarfaced pirate reminded cheerfully.

Jack pulled the compass from his belt, holding it up by its long black loop. "This, and my First Mate, and my ship goes free, yes?"

'My word on it, _Capitaine Sparrow_."

Jack's eyes narrowed. "The word of a gentleman who's already broken with the '_Code of the Brethren_'?" he asked lightly, but with an edge now. "Seems to me that's not much reason to be trusting you, is it?"

De Garonne's veneer of civility threatened to crack. He crimsoned again. "Two minutes, Sparrow, and from where my good friends and I are standing, there doesn't seem to be much choice for you, no?"

Ah... no," Jack agreed, bending his lips into an ingratiating little smile. "No, I suppose there isn't, at that." Lifting the battered lacquered box to eye level, he sighed gustily. "Well, old friend... guess this is where you and I part company at last. Mr. Cotton." He glanced over his shoulder, and motioned with his head for the tall man to relieve him at the helm. The mute left his gun, lined face hard, and with a questioning look in his eyes.

"Avast, ye scurvy swab," his parrot said quietly.

"Be ready," he told them both. "We only get one chance at this."

Cotton brightened then, and winked once, taking the wheel in his gnarled hands.

Jack moved down the steps, glancing covertly to the masts, where his men were hurriedly furling and shortening the _Pearl_'s clothes. He saw with relief that the studding sails were already in. If what he hoped - nay, prayed - would happen went as expected, they'd do his ship more harm than good. He called for the Bo'sun, staring mournfully down at the compass in his cupped hands as if this were the foremost thing on his mind. Marty approached warily, not having been privy to the rapid exchange between Jack and the others.

Jack didn't have time to fill him in. "AnaMaria will tell it. Have everyone below ready to get up and on those braces." Then, much louder, "Take a couple of men down and bring that harpy up here. Play it for all you can, mate, they're watching us." He added the last in a murmur. Marty nodded smartly, and strutted across the gun deck as though his order was the finest thing he'd ever heard.

The little man tapped Kursar and Tearlach, two of the brawnier mates, and led them below as the last of the sails were reefed in, fluttering loosely in the headwind. The men aloft left the footropes and started down.

"You're time is up, Sparrow," de Garonne's voice called out once more. "What is it to be?"

Jack went to the railing, compass held aloft. "Here's the first part of it now. The second..."

A shriek of outrage came from the open main hatchway, followed by the unmistakable sound of shattering glass. Jack winced dramatically.

"The second is being wrapped up for you even as we speak."

There was a mighty sound of struggling, and Kursar backed his way up, striving to hang onto a pair of flailing legs. A moment later, the rest of Jack's writhing First Mate came into view, carried by Tearlach. Her arms bound and a dirty rag stuffed into her mouth, AnaMaria's eyes blazed with single minded fury. He wondered whose idea it had been for the gag. Hers, no doubt. Who else would dare?

Marty appeared next, bawling at the woman to keep still.

Jack shifted his eyes to Gibbs, who stood looking expectantly at him. He raised his brows at the Quartermaster, and the man moved quickly through the crew. Everyone he passed took firm hold of the bracing lines, bodies tensed in readiness.

Almost unnoticed in all of this, Sam Bottoms slipped up through the aft hatch, turning to offer his big hand to Miranda, who haltingly stepped up behind him. The gunner remained protectively close to the noblewoman, shielding her behind his tall body, but his worried gaze was fixed on AnaMaria's continued struggles.

Pale as he'd ever seen her, Miranda stared at Jack, her head moving slowly back and forth in a negative shake. Her great eyes pleaded with him.

He was only able to spare her an apologetic glance before de Garonne commanded his attention, and the_ Mautre de Nire_ at last pulled slowly to a halt alongside the _Pearl_.

"I must admit to disappointment," the Frenchman said thoughtfully, looking from AnaMaria's panting form to Jack. "One would have thought the man to finally best Barbossa would have a bit more of... how you say the fight in him?"

Another forced dissembling smile. "Ah, but what's the profit in fighting a losing battle, eh?" Jack wrapped the leather thong tightly around his compass, and in a grand show of nonchalance, tossed the little box to Marty. The Bo'sun caught it deftly, then stood with crossed arms, glaring at the now quiescent First Mate.

"After all," Jack went on, strolling casually up to the quarterdeck, hands waving intricately about. "I didn't best Barbossa by playing the fool, savvy? A man's got to know when to choose his battles." He rested one hand on the wheel, and Cotton stepped back. Jack met the Frenchman's suspicious eyes squarely.

"Your friendly lesson taught me that. Would be a shame to waste it by doing something stupid, now, wouldn't it?"

De Garonne was silent for a time, mulling over his words, while the _Trident_ continued her lazy circle around both ships.

_Let it be soon_, Jack thought. _While we're clear on our starboard. Let it be soon..._

"You learn well, petit Oiseau. Indeed, you learn well." De Garonne's scarred face split in a wide, satisfied smile. "Now, we run out our gangplank, you hand over our prizes, and we go our separate ways, yes?"

"Oh, yes." Jack smiled back, then addressed his crew. "You heard the good _Capitaine_, men." Affecting an air of regret, he turned to AnaMaria while de Garonne's men hauled out the long boarding planks. "Sorry it had to end like this, luv," he told her with another loud sigh. "I'm sure I'll find meself missing your sweet presence in our lives... though not your shrill screechin'."

He felt he at least owed her that for the steady throb on his cheek. Rendered mute by the gag, she nevertheless fixed him with such a glare that he was glad for the knowledge that this was only an act.

The _Trident_ passed behind their stern. It had to be now.

His eyes swept the deck, noting the readiness of the men at the lines. Seeing at the open hatchway shadowy glimpses of those below preparing to leap topside. Unable to refrain from lifting his brows at the sight of Joshamee Gibbs furtively raising his little flask to his lips for a last quick pull.

And finally...

"Alright, mates," he boomed jovially. "Make our guests welcome." Jack dropped his eyes to look at last into Miranda's resigned ones. All trace of buffoonery gone, he nodded slowly to the frightened noblewoman.

"You know what to do."

o-o-o-o-o-

**A/N: **Thanks very much for all your reviews... I can't tell you how much they help me. And a very special thanks to Scarlett Burns and GeekMama for making this chapter a bit more fitting for human consumtion. Withough them, this would look a heck of a lot scarier.

Please feed the starving writer by making a donation in the R&R box down at your left. No, your OTHER left! Yeah, I'm a wee bit squirrely tonight.


	30. Chapter 26

Disclaimer: Jack is mine. The mouse can have the rest. Except for the Pearl... don't think my dear Captain would appreciate my commandeering him without his pretty boat... ship... Ah well, I can dream, right?

Before this chapter starts, I'd like to give a heads-up, advanced notice to anyone who has me listed in their **C2** communities: I will soon need to change the rating on this story to "**M**", which, I understand will automatically remove me from these lists for reasons known only to the powers that be who run this establishment. Sorry for the inconvinence. :( Now, on with the show!

**Chapter 26  
**

"You know what to do."

The words seemed to hang in the air, and all around him, everything grew oddly... clearer. Every sound sharper. Every color starkly enhanced. All while Miranda stared unblinkingly, white to the lips. He felt an eternity pass in moments while his mind screamed for her to move.

_No choice, Miranda - do it!_

She swayed, but recovered herself. Never moving her eyes from his, Miranda drew a deep breath. Her hands raised, that large, unwieldily ring glinting in the sunlight as she brought her fingers to it, and triggered the clasp.

The deed was done. Nothing left now but to wait.

The _Black Pearl_ was silent. Every soul aboard seemingly holding their breath; even Mr. Cotton's Parrot, whose talons dug fast into the mute's vest. Head cocked with bright eyes scanning the skies, the bird hunched in anticipation, wings folded tightly against its body.

Slowly, Miranda lifted her hand higher, exposing both the ring and the stone within to the same wind that blew strands of her auburn hair against her cheek, and over her forehead.

To their side, de Garonne's men labored to hoist up the long gangplanks in preparation to board.

_Come on_, Jack thought, his heart pounding wildly, beating loud in his ears. _Come on it has to be now!_

Aye, but from where? The first time that stone had woken the gale, the blast had come from their stern, then come at them again from the bow. If her were to swing the rudder, and the lads pivoted those shortened sails as far over as they could...

"Hoi! You lazy blighters gonna help us or not?"

Jack glared at the filthy pair of de Garonne's men as they struggled to line up their plank to his ship. "Of course," he replied silkily, and made a grand gesture. "Mates, lend these fine gentlemen your assistance."

But nobody moved to follow his order, which proved to be a good thing, as just then a blast of wind roared over their keel, striking the _Pearl_ from her starboard quarter. Jack held fast to the wheel as his ship surged sideways, giving a none-too-gentle nudge to the smaller _Mautre de Nire_.

_Yes!_ his mind exalted. _Yes - took you bloody long enough!_

Over the din Jack could hear the startled cries from the Frenchman's crew. Those unlucky souls manning the gangplank found their wooden charge caught up by the rushing air, and flung back into them. The _Mautre de Nire_'s sails shivered, and her helmsman could be seen struggling to keep the schooner in place. Rocked by the sudden movement of his ship, and by the powerful gust, de Garonne flailed his arms wildly and toppled backwards, hat and wig torn from his head.

Jack filled his lungs. "_Now_!"

Sam's gun crew poured up on deck, every man of them running to join their mates at the braces. Rat was among them, and even the cook, Hischler, and his helper threw in. One flash of Kursar's knife, and AnaMaria was free. Tearing the gag from her mouth, she leapt up to stand beside Jack, who twisted his face into a overplayed look of surprise.

"Sorry 'bout that, Henri, old boy," he called, cupping a hand to his mouth. "Never know what the Windward Passage'll have in store for you next."

The _Pearl_ tapped the Frenchman's ship again. Stronger this time, and de Garonne's men fell back from the rails, anxiously looking about.

"Wait it out, mates, wait it out!" Jack glanced to where Miranda stood gazing fearfully at her ring. There was no sign of that strange, unholy light about her hand. Not yet, at least, but this first sweep wasn't done with them, and -

"Ah!"

Gone again. Just as the first time, the sudden blast ended. Now, if all went just as the first, they could be expecting the second, stronger onslaught from the opposing side, and that would mean...

"Steady, men," Jack called in the now unnatural stillness. "Brace to starboard, and for God's sake, hang on!"

"Sink them!"

The Frenchman was back on his feet, gesticulating madly at the Pearl. "Sink them," he screamed again, his face a deep, apoplectic red.

Just then the _Black Pearl_ shuddered, and Jack whirled round, seeing the one possible fly in this hastily concocted ointment of his.

"Oh, no..." AnaMaria's voice sounded in his ear.

The _Trident_, still in her arcing path around them, had surged ahead in the powerful rush. With her keel swung wide, the ornately carved sterncastle touched against the _Pearl'_s side, but their momentum still carried them forward. In another moment or so, the _Trident'_s bow would be square in the path that Jack hoped to escape by.

The men spotted it too. He heard somebody - it might have been Joshamee - call his name, but there was nothing to be done about it now, for the second blast was upon them.

The roar of the first gust was as nothing compared to this vast, shrieking howl as the wind tore into the sea and the ships afloat with the force of a thousand cannonballs all striking at once.

The _Mautre de Nire_ took the first brunt, crabbing sideways against the _Pearl_ as Jack felt his ship lunge ahead. He couldn't spare a glance behind. A far greater danger was playing itself out right before his eyes as the _Trident_''s keel spun back. Perhaps the helmsman, rattled by the initial blow, had overcompensated at the wheel to bring her back on course. But the force of this gale struck the _Trident_''s aft quarter full on, pushing it away while the long sprit beam, with all sails set, came up and around. Jack felt a wave of helpless fear course through him as he watched the _Pearl'_s bowsprit lance through the _Trident'_s lines.

Both ships were now locked together, and de Garonne's folly in ordering his ships to ride so high on the water was now coming back onto the heads of Black Nan's mutinous crew. The _Trident_, far lighter than safety or sanity demanded, began to roll, while the hopelessly entangled _Pearl_ risked the mounting waves crashing up over her stern, slamming her bow into the now boiling seas.

His ship - his _Pearl_ would be broken!

"Take her!" he cried. Cotton's hands replaced his at the wheel. AnaMaria lent her strength to the mute as Jack spun away from them.

He had no memory of his feet ever striking the steps, only that he raced the length of the ship, shedding hat and coat and baldric as he ran past the men straining at the bracing lines. From the corner of his eye, Jack glimpsed the knife that someone had sunk deep into the trunk of the mainmast as a charm to call the winds. He skidded to a halt on the pitching deck, grateful as he'd never before been for sailor's superstitions. Wrenching the blade free, clambering up to the fo'c'sle, and there to the bow rail, where he launched himself onto the spritbeam. Struggling to hang on as he pulled himself along its length. Slashing and sawing whenever he found himself in reach of the _Trident_''s ensnaring lines. Clinging tight to the sprit with all four limbs, and with all his might as the prow slammed into the sea, and the water closed over him with a stinging, icy shock, and all at once he knew a fear colder than the water that enfolded him.

Surfacing... coughing and blowing the bitter brine from his airways. Shaking the water from his eyes, then squeezing them shut, drawing a great lungful of air as the bow plunged again, dragging him under.

Raising him up.

He blinked his eyes clear, and looking up, Jack's stomach gave a violent lurch.

A part of him distantly wondered if all the stories were right after all, and if he truly _was_ mad; scudding his _Pearl_ before a gale, scampering like a demented squirrel along the beam that most ship's men justifiably hailed as the '_Widow-Maker'_, while in the skies above, the screaming of the air was joined by the faintly heard screams from human throats, and the sky was bright with a great, near-blinding arrow of that remembered angry gray light.

He stared, momentarily paralyzed by the sight. Then, the _Black Pearl_ shuddered beneath him, and his ears caught the low, labored groan of the timbers - as though his ship was in pain!

"Hold on, my girl," he whispered, and inched his way forward, straining out to the ends of his reach to set his knife against the last of the lines that bound his _Pearl_ to the foundering _Trident_.

One final cut, one last overstrained line whistling as it whipped past his face, and the _Black Pearl_ was free. Springing up like a startled horse, she sped past the _Trident_, snapping the end of the schooner's bowsprit against her strong hull as her prow launched suddenly and horribly clear out of the sea, and Jack, knife arm still upraised, felt himself swept from the beam.

Falling... the sickening sensation of his body twisting through the air.

Blindly reaching out.

Impacting with something far too solid to be water. His arms wrapped convulsively around it while the rest of him dangled in space. Shaking his head to clear it, he blinked up, and felt his jaw go slack.

_She_ had caught him! His trembling grip held hard to the outstretched arm of the _Black_ _Pearl'_s own figurehead. For a time, Jack hung there, not daring to believe the evidence of his own senses as he stared into the eyes of the serene-faced carving. Then he smiled, hauling himself up with a groan, to rest panting on her shoulder.

"Thanks very much," he said seriously, and pressed his lips to her smooth, polished cheek in a resounding buss. "My Pearl of great price."

Then, hoisting his protesting body up and over the bulwark, he swung his feet down onto a deck awash with chaos.

He'd been relatively sheltered, he realized in his struggle to make his way back to the helm. Out there on the prow with sheet, shroud, and sailcloth as a buffer, he hadn't experienced the sheer punishment that his ship and men were taking now.

The sound alone was overwhelming. Shrieking and howling like a chorus of banshees all determined to outdo one another, and the simple act of walking was like trying to push his way through a wall. He ground his teeth together, forcing his body to move.

Why were the winds still pounding them so? Why hadn't Miranda snapped that ring shut at the first hint of this?

_That's enough, luv. We're clear... come on, Miranda, that's enough!_

Gibbs called out as he passed, and though the Quartermaster's booming voice was just beside Jack's ear, the words were barely audible.

"Jack, we can't keep this up, she'll tear apart from the spars down!"

Jack nodded and pressed on, step by rolling step, with his hand held out before his face to shield his eyes. Waving his other arm for balance as the _Pearl_ pitched and bucked beneath his feet. Silently willing 'his girl' to hold together - that all would be well soon, and his fear for the ship transformed into something very close to anger for the one that he felt was perpetuating this.

He lifted his head, seeing the Lady standing before the quarterdeck steps. Her hand upraised, Miranda's eyes were locked to the seething gray light surrounding it.

"Close it!" Jack cried, then stumbled into the rail as the _Black Pearl_ gave an almighty lurch. "Damnation, woman, you'll see us all at the bottom of the ocean!"

Her eyes never flickered. She hadn't heard. Jack pushed from the bulwark, staggering closer.

"Miranda - stop this, Miranda!"

God's Blood, where the hell was Sam? The gunner should have stayed with her, and watched for Jack to call an end to this. Then he spotted the strapping lad with his arms wrapped around one of the sturdy, open-backed steps. He didn't look to be having an easy time of it.

_What..?_ Jack looked again at the stiffly upright woman. Miranda didn't move. Her body was not swayed by the mad rolling of the ship, but stood unaided, appearing for all the world as though she'd simply sprung up there, a part of the wooden deck beneath her.

The awful light surrounding her hand spread out, slowly enfolding her arm, and at its contact, her terrified eyes grew wider.

Scarcely had this bizarre fact impressed itself, when Jack heard the voice of his First Mate calling out for him; high and piercing over the shriek of the gale. He started, then clawed his way up the steps.

He'd never heard AnaMaria scream like that before. With outrage, yes, and fierce war cries to cow a fat prize, but not this terrible, half-mad sound of fear.

At the wheel, AnaMaria and Cotton struggled to hang on. Seeing Jack, she flung out her arm, pointing frantically off their stern.

The sight that greeted him was like some vision of a mariner's hell: a massive, roiling bank of dark thunderheads where before there had only been a clear sky. It boiled up over the French pirate's two battered ships, and within its depths, great seething patches suddenly flashed with branches of lightning that reached out, illuminating the black, swirling clouds, and the towering, twisting column that was driven before it.

Waterspout!

Jack had heard stories about these. Even seen them a time or two in his life, but never from as close as he was to this monster. For the second time this day, he found himself frozen to the spot, unable to wrench his eyes from the sight.

Its base virtually unseen in a great spray of mist, the spout churned through the sea, passing dangerously close to the exposed keel of the _Trident_. Twisting and weaving almost lazily, it hovered briefly in place, then surged ahead.

Henri de Garonne's schooner had not fared well, though she had somehow managed not to roll, as had her unfortunate cohort. Nevertheless, the _Mautre de Nire_ was carrying too much sail when the winds had dealt that savage, second blow. Her masts had shattered, mere stumps visible on her deck, while the ruined remains, still bound by the standing lines, dragged in the water, pulling de Garonne's ship into a dangerous list.

Jack could see men in the water, arms flailing helplessly as they were swept away by the deadly waves. Other figures still moved about on the Frenchman's ship, desperately chopping at the now fatal network of ropes that held them to the anchoring deadweight of the broken spars.

It did them no good. The waterspout found them first, and the _Mautre de Nire_ was swallowed up in it, disintegrating into a hail of splintered wood and broken bodies.

Shaken, Jack could only look on. The towering column of wind and water paused again, and though he could hardly credit the thought, Jack would have sworn that it was sifting through the wreckage as if it were searching for something. A shudder passed through it. A vibration that traveled from cloud-topped head to churning base, and then the thing lunged forward. No longer sifting or searching, but moving like a dog on the scent, following a trail that would lead it unmistakably to the _Black Pearl_.

"Miranda!" He turned, stumbling down beside her, fighting to remain upright in the force of the storm. "You've got to stop this, girl!"

She was unresponsive, wide eyes still locked on the uplifted ring, while the glow that sprang from that little ornament moved to cover her body with its eerie, hellish light. Her mouth opened, lips drawing back into an awful rictus - an unending scream made more terrible by its silence.

"That's it..." Jack reached out, determined to end this himself, and right now!

His hands stopped a mere span from hers, blocked by an unseen wall that set his skin to prickling, as though he stood in the middle of a lightning storm, with the bolts crashing all around him, and the air alive and crackling with energy. Jack pushed against it, feeling a sensation not unlike trying to move his hands through quicksand, while above the gale, the roar of the waterspout grew louder in his ears. His hands closed around her ring, finding new resistance at the golden cap. But straining against it with all his strength, the dome give way at last, and he felt the 'click' of the tiny catch, and the awful light vanished. Released from its spell, Miranda dropped like a marionette severed from its strings.

Jack swore, catching her before her head could strike the steps, then pushed her body towards Sam.

"Hang on to her," he shouted. The gunner nodded, reaching out to gather the Lady to him in his shelter.

Jack made for the helm, joining Cotton and AnaMaria. A glance to the stern showed him the steadily gaining column. It paused, wavering uncertainly, then pressed on again.

"Larboard!" he announced, then waved his arm to the men on deck. "Pull to larboard!" Those at the masts that had their eyes on him quickly brought their mouths to the ears of their mates, and every man of them was soon straining to pivot the yards while Jack worked with the two standing with him to bring the _Pearl_ about, and away from her nightmarish pursuer. The ship groaned in protest, but to Jack's relief she held true, still scudding before the gale.

If they lived through this, he told himself, he would order extra polish to her brightworks. She'd most likely enjoy that. However, the first order was to survive, and right about now, Jack wasn't too certain of the surety of this. The storm showed no sign of abating, driving the waves against their stern with dreadful force, while the deadly tower grew closer... closer...

It froze again. Whirling in place while the length of its funnel undulated snake-like from side to side. Another lunge, followed by a pause unsettlingly akin to uncertainty. Then it constricted, coiling in upon itself, and its whirling increased to impossible speeds.

Jack heard a new sound over the storm: an almost human snarl of savage frustration. Every hair on his body seemed to stand on end at that sound, and with a shock that nearly knocked him from his feet, the waterspout exploded outward, blasting over the water and into the clouds, slamming into the _Black Pearl _with a force like nothing he'd ever experienced before.

The ship rolled, her bulwarks steeped into the sea. Cotton's grip was torn from the wheel. Without a sound, the tall man slid across the deck, arms wrapped protectively around his body. By sheer force of will, AnaMaria managed to hang on. Bracing herself against the helm, she met Jack's eyes with wild determination.

Then, just as impossibly and abruptly as that incident before Havana, the gale died. The _Pearl_ leveled in the calming sea, her mad rolling ended.

It was over. Jack blinked up into a clear sky, breathing hard, his ears ringing in the sudden quiet. Hands locked in a deathgrip on the wheel, he glanced about in all directions, not quite trusting this... _whatever_ it was... to not attack again from another quarter.

No attack came. The only other sight on the horizon was the rapidly retreating hull of the Blackbirder, dwindling to a mere speck. Of de Garonne's two ships there was no trace left beyond a few floating timbers littering the surface of the water.

"Is it gone?" somebody quavered. Jack turned, seeing the desperate hope on every face that stared back at him. Many men were down on all fours, panting heavily. Quartetto sported a nasty looking cut over one eye that drenched the whole side of his face in red. Duncan wasn't much better, down on one knee with his wrist cradled against his body. Someone - Jack couldn't tell who from here - was retching noisily over the side. He searched for Gibbs, finding the bewhiskered fellow leaning with one arm wrapped around the mainmast.

"We're through it," he told the Quartermaster, who bared his teeth in a fierce grin.

"Ye done it again, Jack," Gibbs announced. "Don't know who's sittin' up there that favors you, but ye done it again."

Jack gave him a lopsided grin, then turned at the sound of a strange, strangled croak. Mr. Cotton slowly got to his feet, soaked to the skin as they all were, and with his hands still wrapped gingerly around himself. The mute drew his vest aside, and his parrot poked its bright head out. The bird glanced suspiciously about, then conceded to step up onto his master's waiting arm, sidling up to its usual position on the tall man's shoulder.

"You alright?" Jack asked as Cotton approached.

"Sound and hale," Mr. Cotton's Parrot replied, shaking out its soggy plumage. "Sound and hale." Then the bird added in a mumble, "Drink up, me 'earties, yo-ho!"

"Oh, I'm all for that, mate," Jack said with feeling. "But first thing's first." Aye, and that would be to find out how they were, and - equally important - where they were. In that order. "Everybody in one piece?"

"Cap'n?" Sam Bottom's voice floated up, a strained edge to it. "Cap'n, you'd best be getting down here!'

_Miranda_...

Jack met his First Mate's eyes, all sense of relief suddenly evaporating. "Hold us here," he barked to Cotton, already descending. AnaMaria's steps resounded loudly beside him. They found the gunner still crouched beneath the steps.

Miranda's body lay propped up against Sam's leg, her lips slack and tinged blue. Her wide eyes stared vacantly at the sky.

"She's not moved, Cap'n," Sam cried. "I don't think she's breathing!"

o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o

**A/N: **And just when you thought the last chapter ended on a nasty note, I choose now to present you with this. (griiiiinnnn!) I LOVED this chapter! I've wanted to write that stunt at the bowsprit since the beginnings of this story were first percolating in my overcaffinated brain, and here it is! A scene that no actor or stuntman in his right mind would ever want to take on, but in print, you can get away with a LOT! Though keeping track of 4 ships, then 3 ships all up on top of each other like that was almost enough to make me throw up my hands in despair! Yikes! This chapter isn't the longest I'm guilty of subjecting you to, but I hope it's been exciting enough. I'll make up for it next time. More on that later. Meanwhile...

No, Erin, I'm afraid you can't kill me for this one either. You'll still need me for the next bit. (hee-heeeeee!) Ew! Rather not kiss the gunner's daughter, thanks very much. She tends to be a bit sizzling after she's just sounded off. Ouch! LOL! Almost expelled a lung? That would be most unfortunate. Can't wait to see what you think of this one! Thank you, thank you, thank you!

Hi, Pendragginink! LOL! Poor Jack takes one to the face again... but it's the first time he's been slapped in THIS story. Zerlina spits in his general direction, Miranda _almost_ shoots him (stresses almost because the poor lass isn't all that handy with firearms), and AnaMaria steps (heavily) on his foot. Other than that, no whack-a-Jack that wasn't an act. But who knows what the future holds? (grin!) Glad you liked all the build-up in that last chapter. Hope this one lived up to it! And thank you! Nothing gives me a bigger shot in the arm than hearing that the characters are sounding true.

Hendercats: Thank you! I know this update took a while, but I hope you've enjoyed it!

AJ-Sparrow: Sorry, I'm gonna have to keep you on that seat's edge for a while longer. (cackles evily!)

Bluegreenskye: The old suffering is over. The NEW suffering begins! Wheee! lol! Thanks very much! I have absolutely no nautical background whatsoever. Everything comes from reading, reading, reading. Admittedly I fudged it a bit... technically, the Trident shouldn't have been able to sneak up on them like that, but the desire for the dramatic sort of took over. You would probably have laughed yourself silly if you'd seen me plotting all of this out. Almost had pencils lined up to represent each ship, and what would happen if the wind struck from one side or the other. I got a little too anal about it, then decided to take my best guess. LOL!

Isobel: Wow! Glad you're enjoying this! I'm VERY flattered by your words.

Velly: Thank you for your generous donation to the starving author fund. winks back!) Hmmm... a dash of Jack romance... Well, not in this chapter, I'm afraid. Sorry. But in the next one... you'll have to see. wink-wink, nudge-nudge LOL!

An Impatient Zorrita: LOL! That was great! But... can a girl be an impish fop? Oh well... if Michiru wants to be a 'Whoreson', I can handle being called an 'Impish Fop'. lol! Welcome to my insanity, and I hope you're enjoying your tour on Outlaw Jungle Cruises, 'cause you're in for a LOOOONNNNGGG haul!

Thank you to all who read and reviewed, and a special thanks and genuflection to Scarlett Burns, courageous proofer who reminds me that punctuation ain't supposed to work like that, and whose eagle-eye catches spelling whoopsies that I KNOW I didn't mean! LOL! Right spelling... wrooooonnngg word.

Next chapter is HUUUUUGE. It will end up divided, as has already happened to me a few times. These people had a lot to say, and they simply would not shut up. As a result, next update will be in excess of 9000 words. (yes, I said nine THOUSAND words) Scary much?

See you all soon, and please, please, pleeeeeease review! Really wanna know what you think! Feed the starving artist!


	31. Chapter 27

Disclaimer: Yep... still the damned rodent's.

**A/N:** Sorry this took so long. I've just recovered from the flu. Oh... joy. And it looks as though this will allow me to have this monster all in one chapter! Now let's see if it'll let me say a few words at the end. In the meanwhile, gentle readers, I give you the long overdue...

**  
Chapter 27**

"She's not moved, Cap'n," Sam cried. "I don't think she's breathing!"

Jack fell to his knees, catching up the noblewoman's hand. Her skin, he realized with a hollow feeling in his chest; it was like ice!

"Miranda -- come on, luv, it's alright now."

Nothing. Not a flicker of her transfixed stare, nor a twitch of her cold little fingers. He patted his hand against her cheek, then again, harder. "Wake up, darlin'. We're safe now, you did it."

She may well have been carved of the same wood as his ship's figurehead; unmoving, unblinking, only the lolling of her head when he'd gently slapped her giving any movement to her body.

"What do we do?" Sam moaned piteously.

"Rat!" AnaMaria called, spinning away. "Where's Rat? Rat, get over here!"

Heart thudding painfully against his ribs, Jack seized the Lady by her shoulders. "Miranda? Don't do this, luv, wake up. Miranda -- Miranda?" He lost his head then, and shook her violently, thrusting his face into hers.

"Damn it all, woman, don't you dare do this!"

Her body jerked under his hands. Jack heard a long, labored rasp of indrawn breath and pulled back, watching intently. Her eyes were still fixed to some far away point that only she could see, but her mouth worked silently, forming a single word again and again. Then an awful keening, high and thin, came from her lips, and her eyes were no longer vacant, but tear-filled and overflowing with panic. How long her screams might have gone on, Jack couldn't guess at, but he couldn't bear it any longer. He shook her again, but with more care.

"Look at me!" he commanded. Her spilling eyes blinked. Several times before they moved to at last focus on him. He felt her hands clutching weakly at his sleeves.

"He knows," she sobbed. "He knows... he knows..."

"Miranda," he began, then pulled her roughly to himself, cradling her while her fingers dug into the fabric of his shirt as she wailed into his shoulder.

"He knows where I am -- he'll find me!"

"It's alright, luv. It's over."

"He'll kill me... kill all of us! He knows where I am, Jack, and he'll find us, and -- "

"Now, that's enough," Jack rumbled sharply. Wouldn't do her a bit of good to be going on like this. Nor for the crew to hear such ominous portents after what they'd just been through. He leaned back, pressing a finger over her lips. "We'll have no more of that, girl. Your little trinket's all sealed up tight again, and soon as we're set to run, we'll be in a safe harbor before you can say -- "

But she wouldn't know what it was that she could say. Miranda had fainted.

" -- Fanny's your aunt," Jack finished with a sigh.

o-o-o-o-o-o

The world came back in oddly disjointed impressions. Miranda had the vague recollection of being lifted up, carried away from the chill air. She caught snatches of terse conversation, but everything sounded far away, muffled as though her ears were stopped up with gauze, yet somewhat hollow at the same time.

Was she no longer above deck? The dimness of the light that filtered through her lids would appear to support this thought, as would the surface that her body reclined upon now. Far softer than the planks of the gundeck.

Miranda wished dearly for the strength to raise her lids, if only to confirm her surroundings. It would seem that her body was not presently inclined towards cooperation.

What a strange thing, she reflected then, that the only one of her senses to be functioning properly would prove to be her sense of smell. There was a scent in the air around her: familiar, yet at the same time exotic and unknown. It was a comforting smell, though her fragmented and hazy thoughts couldn't put name or reason as to why it would strike her so. She only knew that it permeated the place in which she lay, and she turned her face into the soft surface beneath her, breathing deeply. Finding solace in this strange and soothing scent.

Warm, she decided, the fog in her mind lifting a bit. Yes... it was a warm kind of fragrance, with spice and musk, and the ever present smell of the sea. Perhaps a touch of sweat, and ... was that a faint, lingering trace of pipe tobacco?

Miranda wanted to wrap herself up in this pleasant odor. To cocoon herself in it, as with a favorite blanket, and now it wasn't such a dreadful thing that her limbs refused to obey her. That her lids were so heavy that she couldn't lift them. There was a waking nightmare lurking just beyond her shrouded eyes, and she had no desire to face it.

Somewhere close by, there was a persistent sound of glass clinking against glass.

"Is this it?" she heard AnaMaria ask. "Ugh -- what a stink! Here."

"Oh, that's awful," Jack Sparrow's distant voice agreed. "But not near foul enough. Keep looking."

More clinking. More sounds of rummaging.

"Bleeding Hell, why couldn't she have labeled these in English?" Sparrow complained. "What's not in Latin is in Chinese, by the look of it. What about this one?"

Her case, Miranda realized slowly. They were going through her collection of medicines. But in search of what?

"Phaugh! -- that's the one."

"You sure?"

"Trust me, darlin', you don't forget something like this when it's shoved under your nose. Let's see if it works on her."

'_Works on her'... oh, no!_ Miranda tried to raise her hand, tried to speak out, but her body wouldn't respond. She drew another breath, wanting to tell them she was awake, and got a nose full of the searing fumes of ammonia for her efforts. Her paralysis instantly released, she rolled away onto her side.

"S'alright now, lass." The pirate patted her on the back, then moved his hand in little circles between her shoulders as she fought to recover her breath and still the furious fit of coughing that her own smelling salts had induced. A small rectangle of linen dangled before her streaming eyes.

"Here," he said, daubing at her face. Miranda snatched it from his hand, glaring reproachfully up at him.

Sparrow grinned toothily. "I think that squares us for rude awakenings, Milady." He rose and stepped away. AnaMaria took his place, throwing him a sour look over her shoulder.

"Don't let him fool you, Miranda, he's been half out of his head ever since we found you near to death out there."

"Ah... yes, well..." The Captain looked distinctly uncomfortable. "How would I ever explain it to your Goodwoman Hannah that I'd gotten you away from his Lordship, only to end you up killed by a supernatural piece of jewelry? She'd have a poker skewered through my braincase before you could blink twice."

Miranda glanced back and forth between them, taking in the sight of their plastered down hair and drenched clothing. "Near to death?" she repeated. "But -- but what happened out there? You both look half drowned, and... how did I come to be here?"

_In Jack Sparrow's cabin_, her mind added, _in his very bed_. The pillow she lay upon, she realized with a guilty flush, was the source of that warm, masculine fragrance that had so enticed her. Miranda angled herself into a seated position while the two pirates gave her a rapid account of their escape from the attacking ships, and the terrifying pursuit of the waterspout -- an image that made her mind reel anew.

"Thought we'd lost you for sure," AnaMaria said to her Captain. "When I saw you thrown off the sprit like that..." She shook her head in amazement. "How you made it out of that one alive is what I want to know."

He spread his hands. "I'm Captain Jack Sparrow." AnaMaria rolled her eyes in exasperation.

"But more's to the point, what happened to you out there?" Sparrow aimed a long finger at Miranda, and dragged a chair from his table, turning it so that he straddled the seat with his arms crossing over the top of the backrest. Setting his chin on his arms, he waited for her to speak.

Miranda stared back into his dark eyes, until she no longer saw him, but instead the unwelcome images that boiled up from her memory.

"I... he knows, Captain. He knows who I am. He called me by name."

"It spoke to you?" he interrupted. Miranda nodded, feeling again the hot sting of tears.

"He told me there was no place I could go that he couldn't find me. He... I saw him, Jack - I saw his eyes! I c-couldn't move... couldn't breathe, he... oh H-Heaven!" She covered her face, but couldn't block the vision from her inner sight. "I could feel myself d-dying! He's so angry. So very angry now. He knows where we are, Jack, he's coming for me! He --" Her voice failed, leaving her unable to do anything now but to sob into her hands, and loathe herself for such a display of weakness.

The chair scrapped loudly, and Jack's heavy footsteps moved away.

"You pouring her something?" AnaMaria called after him. "Sure you shouldn't get her some of that wine instead? We need her settled down, not passed out."

Miranda sniffled and raised her head, wiping at her face with the little handkerchief. "Thank you, Captain Sparrow. I do believe I would like some rum."

She did need to calm herself. How else would they glean anything useful from this happening if she succumbed to another loss of self-control? As if reading her thoughts, Sparrow's face was serious as he returned, handing a pewter mug each to herself and the First Mate.

"Nothin' to be ashamed of, Miranda," he said, and poured out the amber liquid for each of them. Then he tipped the bottle back and forth before her with a meaningful look. "Got some old tars out there that'd like nothin' better than to climb into the bottom of one of these right now, and never come back up again after what we just went through." He raised the rum to his lips, and tossed back a healthy mouthful.

Mollified slightly, Miranda raised her mug. Two deep swallows, and she held it out to him again. Brows lifting, he dribbled more rum into her mug, then more still, filling it to halfway when she only regarded him steadily, arm still outstretched.

"It doesn't help, you know," he said with some concern. "It won't make the demons go away."

She gulped down another burning mouthful, resisting the urge to toss back the rest all in one just to spite him. Did the man think himself to be the final authority on burying unpleasant memories beneath a thick blanket of spirits?

"A lesson I became quite familiar with after my mother died, I assure you," she said with as much neutrality as she could manage. "But as I've no wish to entertain either of you with yet another display of hysterics..." Miranda lifted her mug in salute, and drank. A smaller sip this time, as her head was already feeling the familiar effects. Nonetheless, it was a blessed relief from the jangled wreck of her nerves.

An ironic bend to his lips, Sparrow returned her salute with his bottle. "Aye," he said in a subdued voice. "Here's to holding off the horrors. For now, at least." Then he drank deeply. AnaMaria made a small noise of agreement, and followed suit.

There was a knock at the cabin door, and a voice calling out, "Jack?"

"Come," Sparrow barked. Mr. Gibbs poked his head into the room. Seeing them all seated, he stepped in.

"How're we holding up, Joshamee?"

"Sound as a drum," the Quartermaster said. "An' don't ask me how, after all that tossin' about. The _Pearl's_ fine, but the men are all a-shake. Had Hischler pour out some o' the baptized stuff."

By which Miranda understood him to mean rum that had been diluted. Sparrow nodded his approval.

"Have him serve up some provisions as well. We'll all be needing our strength."

"Aye, I'll pass that along." Mr. Gibbs frowned then. "And near as we can tell, we've been blown halfway to Inaugua. Don't know how far out we are from Tortuga now."

Miranda glanced to the Captain, who was tugging at his braided chin.

"Either way, we need to be as far away from 'here' as we can get, and the faster, the better." He narrowed his eyes thoughtfully, fingers moving to pat at his mustache. "Soon as we're underway, send half the men to catch some sleep. We'll be running through the night."

Mr. Gibbs looked up nervously, squinting as though trying to see to the deck above. "You think whatever sent that... that thing after us might be tryin' to get here an' finish the job?" he wondered unhappily. Miranda saw his fingers form the sign to ward off the evil eye.

Jack shrugged. "I think I'd be playing the fool to not listen to my instincts. And right now they're telling me to fly like the Devil himself was nipping at our heels."

"Oh, aye. Them instinct o' yourn are right in line with mine, Jack. I'll pass on the word, and we'll be clear of these parts afore nightfall. Oh, by the way - " He came forward, hand outheld. "Marty wanted t' make sure you got this back." He passed the small, battered compass box into Sparrow's eager hands. "And the men are wantin' me to ask after her Ladyship here." Mr. Gibbs met her eyes at last. "Yer alright now, ma'am?"

Miranda managed a smile for his behalf. "As well as can be expected, Mr. Gibbs. But what of the crew? Were there injuries? Does Mr. Vinccensi require assistance?"

AnaMaria's light push against her shoulder prevented Miranda from rising, as did the severe warning look on the girl's face. It was just as well, she thought, for at once Miranda was struck by a wave of wooziness. She settled back without argument.

"Rat's got it all sorted out now, ma'am," Mr. Gibbs said kindly. "No need t' be worryin' yer head." Then to Jack, "You comin' up?" Sparrow bobbed his head in an odd little sidelong nod that set his beads to swaying.

"Soon as we've cleared up a few things here. While this is all fresh in our minds."

The Quartermaster shuddered, his hand moving to the small flask at his hip. "I'll just leave you three to it, then," he said, obviously wanting nothing to do with reexamining this day in any great detail. Nodding to Miranda with another polite "Ma'am", Mr. Gibbs left them, flask already uncorked and to his lips before the door could fully close.

Jack rubbed wearily at his face. "Where were we?" he asked. Before anyone could speak, there was another knock.

"Yes?" The Captain's voice had a slight edge to it at this second interruption. Mr. Vinccensi entered, glancing about until his eyes fell upon Miranda.

"Ah, you are awake," he noted, a wide grin on his round face. "Had me all knotted up with the way poor Sam was going on. All in one piece, are we?"

"As far as I can tell," Miranda said with an effort to sound light. "The patient is still breathing, but I'm withholding final diagnosis."

The little man let out a hearty laugh. "I'll wager there's not a man here that's not doing the same. Even them that goes around on four legs on this ship are lookin' a bit greenish about now."

Sparrow made an impatient wave of his hand, and the surgeon cleared his throat. "Actually, I've come to ask for some of that paste of yours again. Can't say as I understand why it works good as it does, but I'm not about to argue it, either."

"Of course," Miranda said, pointing to the Captain's table. "It's right there next to... oh, dear -- you two have made a terrible jumble of my case. Nothing was spilt, I trust?"

AnaMaria threw her hands up. "Oh, fine time to be worrying about it now!" she scathed, while Mr. Vinccensi picked through the bottles and jars.

"Got it, miss," he announced, holding up the container in question. "You'll let me know if you need anything from my stores?"

"She will, Rat," Jack interjected smoothly. "No worries." Vinccensi grinned again, and stumped to the door, where he nearly collided with Sam Bottoms, who was just pushing in. Sparrow pinched the bridge of his nose, groaning under his breath.

"I brought you these, Cap'n," Sam announced earnestly. In his arms were Jack's hat, coat, and sword belt, but his eyes were fixed on Miranda, and a look of relief crossed his young, open face. "You're alright!" he exclaimed happily.

The Captain jumped up from his seat, hands taking flight. "Yes, Mr. Bottoms, we've already determined that. Three times already, and a fourth just now, if you're wanting a proper count, but by all means, do come see for yourself!" He retreated to a corner of his cabin, where he stood muttering to himself.

Poor Sam looked chastened. Miranda smile genuinely, and held out her hand to the young man, sparing a glance of annoyance for his 'Cap'n'. "Pay no mind to that grumpy dragon in the corner," she commanded. "Dear Sam. I don't know how I would have had the courage to face going above, if you'd not been there to help me."

Sam blushed to his hairline, but carefully squeezed her fingers, releasing them as if burned at the distinct sound of a growl from the farther reaches of the cabin. "Just happy to see you, ma'am." he stammered. Squaring his broad shoulders, he turned to face AnaMaria.

"Sorry, Miss Ana. I know you told me to look out for her. Good thing Cap'n was there to save our skins." He hung his head. "I wasn't much good when things started bouncing around out there."

AnaMaria shook her head dismissively, tapping the young man with a light punch to his arm, while from the corner, Sparrow snorted.

"'Cap'n' almost wasn't of much use either, son. Not up against that, so we'll have none of this beating ourselves up for it, savvy?" He came forward, putting an arm around the gunner's shoulder. "Besides, as I recall, you were the one still looking after our esteemed guest when we came out of it. That's got to be better than heaving your lunch over the side, eh?"

Miranda wrinkled her nose at this comparison, but Sam beamed gratefully.

"Aye," he said. Then, "Thanks, Cap'n."

Sparrow gave him a pat on the back. "Off with you now, son. Get yourself some food, and then see where you can lend a hand."

"Aye, aye, Cap'n Sparrow," Sam happily replied, then nodded to both ladies. "Glad everything turned out, ma'am." Then he smiled tightly at AnaMaria, "An' I'm glad that son of a bi --" He caught the last with a guilty glance to Miranda, then hastily amended, " -- that Frenchie got what was comin' to him, Miss Ana!" Touching a hand to his forelock, the tall youth departed.

Jack stared after him, and when the door closed, turned on his First Mate with a raised brow, and a quirk to his lips that didn't bode well."

_"Miss_ Ana?"

"Don't start," she warned, glowering darkly.

"He is such a nice boy," Miranda remarked, taking another drink.

"Aye... but he wouldn't care to hear you say it." The impudent grin that she'd come to accept as part and parcel of Jack Sparrow was firmly in place. "Our young Mr. Bottoms has been sweet on you ever since you threatened to stitch his bum together."

AnaMaria coughed, choking on her own drink. "You didn't!" she cried, wide eyed with astonishment.

"You were unconscious at the time, dear. And the Captain is most certainly overstating things."

"The Captain most certainly is not," Sparrow protested. "I half expect to see flights of those hideous little Italian cupids winging 'round the lad's head every time he looks at you." His hands described flapping motions in the air.

"Don't be absurd. Why, I'm sure I'm old enough to be that boy's mother!"

"Ah, but you don't look like his mum, I'll wager." Picking his way through the assorted oddments that decorated his private room, he paused to touch his hand to the hat that rested atop his other articles where Sam had quickly deposited them, then came to stand over her.

"Fresh as a maid in spring, you are," he said softly. Miranda craned her neck to look up at him, hoping that the color that rose in her cheeks would be attributed to the rum she'd consumed. The same could not be blamed for the flock of butterflies currently fluttering about in her stomach.

"And you, sir, are like the Serpent in the Garden... oh!" She clapped a hand to her mouth, mortification sweeping through her. Surely she'd not meant to say that aloud!

_ Damn the man! Damn his rum, damn his silky words -- damn his sinful eyes!_

The Captain's sinful eyes sparkled. Though not privy to her thoughts, his next words proved him quite capable of guessing at them. "If Milady is through with consigning my various parts to the eternal flames, perhaps we could get back to... "

He stopped, and tipped his head back. Miranda heard the sound of a fresh commotion from on deck.

"Cap'n says we haul arse for Tortuga," someone bellowed loud enough to be heard by those below the quarterdeck. "So why're we still sittin' here?"

"D'you know where we are?" another voice challenged angrily. "If yer so sure of where ta point our nose, why ain't you the one at the helm?"

"Belay that, the both o' you!" Mr. Gibbs roared. "Crimp, get yer sorry tail up on those footropes if ye want ta be good fer more 'n ballast. Sollie -- get over here! Get. Over. Here."

Jack sighed. "I'd best get up there."

"Uh-uh," the First Mate said into her cup. Draining the last of her drink, she rose for the door. "You stay, I'll deal with it."

He followed her with narrowed eyes. "Aye, aye," he began in deceptively soft tones. _"Captain_ Ana."

She spun around and snapped, "Stop that! You know damned well I can plot a bloody course good as any Portagee, same as you. Besides..." Her eyes flicked to Miranda, and she grabbed his arm, pulling him away. "Besides, right now, she needs you more."

The girl had made an effort to lower her voice, but Miranda heard anyway. Flushing anew, she stared into her much depleted mug, then proceeded to deplete it further. When she dared to look again, the two were still regarding each other: the Captain warily, and the First Mate with a stubborn set to her jaw.

"Go on, then," he said quietly, and cocked his head towards the door. "The men trust you." AnaMaria's face softened a bit. She put her hands on the man's shoulders, then raised them to his face.

"Only because you do... _Captain_ Sparrow."

He blinked, then held the door for her, closing it carefully after. When he turned, it was clear to Miranda that he'd forgotten she was there, listening.

"What is it with you wenches? Never know when to keep your place, you lot. She learn that from you?"

Miranda snorted. At another time she might have reproved this with a stern rebuke, or at least, frosty silence. But she knew his words to be a ploy to cover his embarrassment. "You're not convincing me, Captain. Ani's very dear to you, just as you are to her -- oh, _damn_!" She covered her mouth again, cursing her loose tongue.

"Am I, now?" he mused as he swayed to her side. "And when, pray, did you learn of this, dear lady?"

"She told me herself," Miranda admitted miserably. "She said that she loved you like kin -- but don't tell her I said it! Please!" Miranda clutched at his sleeve. "She said she'd put an eel in my bed if I told. I don't think I'd like an eel in my bed, Jack."

He stared down from his seemingly towering height, a slight furrow between his brows, and a bemused look in his eyes. He swallowed, a bit nervously to her admittedly not-too-steady eye, and wet his lips with the tip of his tongue.

Had she said something wrong? Such an strange look he was giving her now. Miranda shivered. Then he flashed her a gold flecked smile, and bent down to her.

"We'll just keep that between ourselves, shall we? But if you don't mind, I'll be taking that from you now." Neatly relieving her of her rum, he dangled it before her. "Think you've had more than enough of this for my own good," Jack said, and raised the mug to drink. Frowning when he'd emptied it.

"Didn't leave me much, did you?"

Miranda watched him sulkily, and the pirate groaned.

"Ah, don't pout at me like that, luv! 'S more than a gentleman can bear -- and I'm no gentleman."

She frowned at this odd declaration. What on earth was he going on about now? A distant part of her mind informed her quite calmly that she should know full well, and to stop being obtuse. She brushed this off as having more to do with the liquor, than with sense.

Sparrow set the mug aside, then reached into her leather case, and came back to straddle his chair.

"Now," he said seriously. "Before anything else happens to interrupt us again, what can you tell me about what happened with this?" He held her ring up before her. Miranda recoiled, trying to retreat across the bed. His hand shot out, gripping her wrist while he spoke low and quickly.

"Whoa! -- easy, luv, it's alright. All closed up, and we're out of the wind, and I won't be asking you to do that again. D'you hear me? I won't ask you to do that again!"

His words gradually penetrated. Miranda stopped her struggles, wrenching her eyes from that horrible ring to meet his. Quick as any street magician, he must have sequestered it somewhere in his pockets, for now both hands were clasping hers tightly His face was so contrite that she believed him, but her vision blurred again.

"He won't stop, Jack. He will find me."

"Maybe," he conceded, one of his warm, calloused hands leaving hers to brush the fresh tears from her cheek. "But we don't have to make it an easy thing for him, do we? Once we've tracked down Gorsse, it could be that we'll have something to use against this fellow. Come on, luv. What can you tell me?

Miranda sniffled, then swallowed hard. "I - I told you that I couldn't move." He nodded encouragingly, and she cleared her throat, and continued. "I couldn't see anything happening on the ship. Not when the l-light came. I was... it felt like looking into the face of a storm. No, of all storms, and he was so... enraged. Frustrated. He's old, Jack. So old, and he's carried this ancient rage all this time! It was... it..." She shuddered violently, and the grip on her hand tightened.

"And then he spoke to me. He called me by name: '_Your time is ended, Tryphia. All shall be restored. You can but delay your destruction.' "_

"Tryphia?" Jack's brows drew together. "Who's this?" Miranda studied him for a moment, wiping at her damp face.

"It's me," she said finally. "Or rather, _I _am Tryphia. Father was so fascinated by mama's lineage, that he wanted his daughters to have Greek names. So, here I am: Miranda Evelyn Tryphia Warringford."

"Ah... But what happened to you up there? After I got that ring of yours shut, you just... dropped. Then you stopped breathing altogether. Scared the wits out of me -- out of all of us."

She took a deep breath, glad for the muffling effect of the rum. "I think I've told you most of it. I remember these eyes - so cold, but so much more than that. So full of... of hate! Lightning and storm clouds and thunder all at once. I could feel a hand... crushing! Every finger squeezing the life from me. I couldn't breath, couldn't move. I thought I was screaming, but..."

"Not a sound." She focused on his somber face.

"You were tryin' luv, I'll grant you that. But you never made so much as a squeak. Not till I woke you, at any rate." He held up a finger. "Looked like you were trying to say something, though. Do you remember anything like that?"

"I... I don't know, I can't - all I remember is knowing he would kill me." Miranda clutched the fingers of her free hand in her skirts. "But I think out of all, the voice was the worst of it. I... I heard him as clearly as I can hear you, and I thought I'd go mad right then and there. I... I c-can't even begin to describe it to you."

"Like every hair on the back of your neck tried to stand on end?" he asked suddenly. "Like you were being frozen from the inside out?"

She frowned, perplexed. "Yes -- but how..?"

"I've heard 'im," Jack said bitterly. "Heard someone just like that only a few weeks ago. In the carriage, with his Lordship."

Miranda's breath caught. "He was there?" she gasped. "Just outside my house? But then why didn't he --"

"Come in and take it right then?" he finished, a fierce light in his eyes now. "Luv, he didn't even know your precious little trinket was there until Dunnthorpe saw fit to inform him of it. He only knows about it when it's here -- out on the water, and opened to the wind." Releasing her, he got to his feet, pacing about the quiet confines. The light glinted, reflecting in bursts from the metal bound into his hair.

"So whoever it is we're up against, he's not all powerful. There are limits to his reach -- and he's not happy about it, either. That could be why he sent that waterspout after us." Jack halted, and grinned triumphantly. "Our not-so-sleepy friend has just thrown one hell of a tantrum, my Lady, but he's not near so in control of things as he wants you to believe. Think about it: someone with that much power conspiring against you with a minor nobleman like a pair of common assassins? I think he's got some constraints imposed on him while on land. Which could be why he needed Dunnthorpe to get to you."

He crossed quickly to her, seating himself at the edge of his bed, and gripped her shoulders. "You see, Miranda? There's still some life left in us. We'll spoke their wheel yet, you and I!"

Struck dumb in the wake of such enthusiasm, Miranda gazed into his wild, wicked, darkly handsome face, and felt an overwhelming surge of emotion. Throwing her arms around his neck, she embraced him soundly, burying her face in the still dampened ropes and strands of his hair. Breathing in the comforting scent of his skin. Unable to articulate anything more profound than a repeated, "Thank you, Jack. Thank you."

His arms encircled her, but tentatively, and there was an awkwardness to the way he patted at her back. "Lady Warringford," he began in an oddly strained voice. Then he sighed, and his arms tightened, pulling her to him while he rocked her gently, murmuring her name in a way that made the blood race in her veins. It was such a lovely sensation, though. Miranda felt so very safe here, even though a rapidly retreating part of her mind shrieked that her present location -- in a scoundrel's arms, in the aforementioned scoundrel's bed -- should be the last place in the world that a supposed gentlewoman should find to be safe! She supposed that she should be horrified, but at the moment she just couldn't muster up the required moral indignation to care.

It would appear, however, that someone else could. Jack's arms released her all at once, and he drew back, carefully, but insistently disentangling her arms from about his neck.

"Alright, lass, that's enough." She felt what she supposed was his chin resting atop her head. "I'm only flesh and blood, you know."

Why, what else would she think him? Perhaps it was merely an effect of the rum, but the longer she sat here this day, the less she felt she understood this strange, wonderful man.

_Oh, my_... Perhaps it truly was the rum, for now Miranda had the distinct feeling that her head was trying to detach from her shoulders, and only the weight of his chin on her crown was keeping it from floating away. Kind of him to keep her head anchored for her... she would most certainly miss it, otherwise.

"Dearest Jack... you've been such a good friend to me." She nuzzled her cheek to his neck, struck by how soft his skin was there, and by the pulse point at the base of his throat. So fast! His heart was positively racing.

He groaned then, a piteous sound, and held her at arm's length. "Aye, Milady," he said. "A good friend." A look of pain crossed his handsome face. There and gone, but despite her impaired state, Miranda saw, and felt wretchedly sorry for him. Who would hurt this dear man so?

He glanced away. "Friend enough to tell you that you'd do best to get some sleep right now, so if you'll give me a moment to gather a few things, I'll leave you to it."

"Leave me to... but this is your cabin, I can't put you out! I'll go." Miranda tried to make good on this, but the room tilted so alarmingly, that she sagged back with a hand raised to her forehead.

Jack chuckled beside her. "See what happens when you fling a man's kindness back in his face, Milady?" Then he applied a mild, but unrelenting pressure to her shoulders until she reclined once more. "You've gone and had too much rum, lass. Might as well stay where you are until you're straightened out. No use arguing it, there's dozens of places on the _Pearl_ where I can nip off for a few winks."

"But --" she started to protest. Sparrow hushed her, giving the lightest of taps with his fingertip to the end of her nose.

"Stay," he commanded. "Good kitten. Meow, meow, meow."

Miranda giggled (she giggled!), then stilled it with an effort to appear stern. "I am not up the muzzen -- the misshen... up the mast, Sir. Nor am I your pet."

"Of course not," he agreed pleasantly, though she suspected him of laughing at her. "You're an adorably drunk little Countess who can lob all the dried peas in the world at me that she likes -- as long as she _stays_ _put_ and gets. Some. Rest. First. Savvy?"

Drunk, was she? Surely not! Only very tired. And... rather dizzy. And... oh, bother it, very well - she'd had too much rum on a near empty stomach. But she would only stay for a little while, she told herself. Just until the room stopped spinning, and her wonderful, overbearing friend was involved elsewhere.

_'Adorably' drunk, did he say?  
_  
Submitting, she moved onto her side, drawing her legs up beneath the heavy weight of her skirts. Lulled by the gently rolling of the hull, she turned her face into his pillow, smiling as that oh-so-comforting fragrance wrapped itself around her senses, bidding her to close her eyes and lose herself in it. With a contented smile, Miranda obeyed.

o-o-o-o-o-o-o

A friend, she had called him. And a good one, no less. Jack gazed down at the quiet little figure in his bed, and wondered what kind of 'good friend' her Ladyship would think him were she privy to his thoughts just then. Would she slap him, or applaud his self control? Neither option was of any great appeal. Not with the fresh memory of how she'd clung to him.

That thought alone brought with it an whole new wave of conflicted impulses. His body, tired, cold, and bruised as it was; still ached for hers with a longing that was becoming increasingly difficult to ignore. What a simple thing it would be to bolt the door and slip into that bed beside her. Unlikely that she'd reject him in her current state.

But... when she came to herself again?

Jack closed his eyes, letting his breath out slowly. He knew her better than that. When Miranda came to her senses, she would surely hate herself, to say nothing of him for such a betrayal of her trust.

Her friend, she'd called him. Had he not thought the same of her? Was this tiny blue-blood not the same creature who had faced down Javier Vallasquar and three of his men? Who had launched herself at the bounty hunter and fought him while Jack was sprawled helpless in a Havana alleyway? His eyes drifted over her face. The bruise was gone now. No mark on that smooth skin to show that she had grappled with a man twice her size on the behalf of someone whom her peers would cheerfully watch gasping out his life's breath at the end of a noose. He traced his finger lightly over the line of her jaw, and Miranda tipped her head into his touch, smiling a drowsy little smile.

"You have kind hands, Jack," she said with a voice that was perhaps a bit slurred. Her eyes never opened, but as he watched, her brows drew together, and her smile faded. "Not like him..."

His mouth was dry again, and her lips -- bent into a frown that he hated to see there -- were very inviting. Time to put some distance between them before he did something incredibly forward... and stupid. He'd tasted those lips twice now. It wasn't near enough.

"Is that so," he asked casually, standing. "His Lordship, you mean?" Reaching for his coat, he shrugged into it, pulling his hair and the long tails of his bandana free. Careful to avoid the still tender spot at the back of his head. One of his two bloody mementos of that last trip to Cuba. Rat had taken all of his stitches out yesterday -- had it only been yesterday? -- declaring both shoulder and skull to be in better shape than he'd had any right to expect. This was only a few hours before Miranda had come up on deck with the startling request to speak to him on the mizzenmast. It felt like a year had passed since yesterday.

Miranda hummed a sleepy "Mm-hmm" behind him, and fell silent while he moved quietly about his room. Then, "Stank."

Jack turned. "Pardon?" Was she not asleep by now? She certainly looked it well enough. But her mouth twisted into a moue of distaste.

"Edward... he stank."

"Did he, now?" Jack tried very hard not to laugh. The poor girl probably wasn't even aware of what she was saying. "I'm sorry to hear that, Milady."

"Hmm... reeked like a swine's pen," she said softly, wrinkling her nose. "Swine with attar of roses splashed all over it. Hate attar of roses," she added in a sulky murmur.

Oh, yes, he decided, definitely more than a few sheets to the wind, she was. But then her eyes silted open, finding him easily enough.

"Not like you... you smell ever so much nicer than him. Warm. Alive..." She nuzzled at that pillow of his, smiling again, and Jack ground his teeth together to hold back the moan that begged to escape his throat.

God's Blood, couldn't she see she was killing him?

He should go. He should leave, and right now! A weeping Miranda, or a frightened one, made him long to hold and comfort her. A waspish Miranda invited needling provocation, while a mischievous one asked for returned humor in kind. A Miranda huffing at him in true high-toned manner was a delight all unto itself, and an outraged one was a source of fascination.

But a tipsy Miranda, warm and muzzy in his bed? Or flushed, gazing up at him with great pleading eyes and parted lips, begging him with a hand on his arm not to tattle of a betrayed confidence? One who rubbed that soft, gold brushed cheek into his bedding and told him that -- of all things! -- he smelled nice and had kind hands? A Miranda accusing him of acting the Serpent in the Garden, while all unknowing, she was Eve, holding forth that forbidden apple before a starving Adam who'd never admitted to a hunger like this until she'd tempted him?

This Miranda was dangerous. This Miranda was... irresistible.

"Must you leave now?" she asked then in a childlike voice that threatened to do away with whatever was left of his resolve.

God! -- how many women asked him that very question? Be damned if he could remember one single instance where it had torn at him the way it did now! He approached her slowly, nudging his chair around to seat himself properly this time. Setting his elbow to the mattress, he rested chin on hand, and stared long into those lovely, dark fringed eyes.

"Don't you think it would be for the best, Milady?" he said finally. Her lids lowered, a line appearing between her brows.

"He'll come for me in my sleep. They both will. Edward always has, and now this... this creature..."

"Shh... my poor girl. I guess old Jack will have to do something about that, now, won't he?" Jack rose and leaned over her, pressing his lips to her temple. Lingering there for a long moment, while he breathed in the fragrance of her hair.

All at once she giggled, and batted faintly at his chin. "Tickles!" she complained, and he realized with a touch of chagrin that his two little braids must have dangled into her face. The corners of her eyes crinkled charmingly as she smiled up at him.

"I've never been kissed by a bearded man before you. At least, not since I was a very, very small child."

"Ah." Amazing how this simple admission could undo him utterly. "Well, it's long past due you were again, don't you think?" And he kissed her brow again, then touched his lips to her eyelid, feeling the flutter of her lashes against the sensitive skin. Feeling his heart pounding in his chest, and the blood race through his veins as he slid down the curve of her cheek to brush light as a butterfly's wing over her mouth. He hovered there, breathing in her breath. Willing with all his heart, and with a mind that whispered _'please'_ again and again for her to span that tiny space between them herself. He didn't know whether he'd spoken the word aloud or not. Neither did he care, but waited, wanting, until -- _oh, God_ -- her head lifted to meet him, lips so warm, so gentle, parting beneath his.

_ Eve and the apple_. This was his last thought before he, her starving Adam, melted into her, losing himself in the sweet invitation of her lips. Tasting rum as his tongue softly invaded, then explored her.

Rum, and beyond it, the pure taste of freshly fallen rain. And then she was there, invading him now, shyly as a maiden. The moan he'd so ruthlessly restrained broke from him, loud to his own ears, but answered a heartbeat later by that sound -- that beautiful part sigh, part song that set every nerve of him to burning with a desire that made him tremble. He was only barely aware of half-kneeling over her, one foot on the deck, one knee cushioned on his bed as his hand, resting on her hip, slid to her waist, then upward, and he knew a sudden wave of resentment for the thick, rigid layer of her corset that surely blunted the feel of his hand on the delightful flesh confined within. So he continued to woo her with his mouth. Lead her slowly, patiently through the dance of joining, separating, and coming together again that mimicked in acute detail what he ached -- ached! -- to lead their bodies through.

Her fingers moved through his hair, and over his face. She brought them stroking down his neck and to the open throat of his shirt. One hand resting over his pounding heart, the other slipping beneath the layers of his clothes to caress his shoulders. Never flinching once as her fingertips encountered his scarred back. But then, she wouldn't. Not his Miranda.

His Miranda. His brave girl whose soft cries and innocent explorations threatened to render him a quivering heap.

Damn these corsets! Hellish contraptions, really. Why did any woman allow herself to be caged with one of these sadistic inventions? He trailed his fingertips over the pale swell of bosom so delectably exposed by the square neck of her gown. Miranda gasped, arching her body beneath him.

Oh, so she'd liked that, had she? Then he would show her more. He would abandon her lips, for the long, bewitching line of her throat, and from there... Ah, yes, from there -- but first he would have to free her. First he would cut her from this damnable prison she was locked into. This many-layered cage of linens and silks and whalebone held together with chains of hooks and lacing cords. And then ... Oh, then he would show her just what wonders he was capable of with his mouth and his kind hands on her body, and he would --

He would take her, right then and there, and it would be glorious. He would have her body for a few delirious rum hazed hours, and he would lose her trust --and lose his friend -- forever. The truth was the bitterest of gall churning in his stomach, but it was one that he couldn't dismiss. And though every part of him cried out in an agony of denial, he banked the heat of his kiss. Gentled the fire that he'd awoken in the both of them, until with a last stroke of his tongue against hers, a last sweet brushing of their lips; he drew away, and made himself meet her eyes.

Surprise and longing mixed with a terrible regret: all of this was easily read in her. In those great eyes, where the pupils were so enlarged as to hide their soft green. In her lips, bruised from his, forming a wordless question.

So... he wasn't the only one feeling so incomplete right now. He wasn't alone in his frustration. That had to be worth something -- right?

_ Right?_

"Jack?"

He forced himself to smile. "There you are, luv. A kiss from a bearded man. Ah, no -- don't cry, girl! Please, don't cry. Don't..." Oh, how they would surely laugh, he thought. All the restless ghosts of the brigands who'd ruled these waters before him, to see Captain Jack Sparrow: Scourge of the Seven Seas; babbling like a love-struck swain to soothe the hurt in this woman's glistening eyes. Crooning endearments and petting her hair until the tears dried, and she blinked sleepily up at him.

"There's a lass. See? Too much of the bottle for the both of us. And me acting a perfect beast when you're still in such a bad way. What must you be thinkin' of me poor, churlish self?"

She wasn't falling for his ploy to deflect this onto himself. Not for a second, she was. Clever girl... even for one who'd put away much more rum than he would have expected of her. He puffed out his breath and ran a hand vigorously through his hair, then risked leaning close again, chin resting on the heel of his hand.

"Close your eyes, Lady. We'll just... we'll add this to our list of things to talk about, eh? When the rum's worn off. Swear it on pain of death," he added when her face became mournful and suspicious.

_ Ah, but when your head's cleared, will _you_ be wanting to discuss it, Milady?_

She smiled, a sad curve to her lips, but curled onto her side, heavy lids drooping lower and lower until she drifted off with a sigh, the tight line of her mouth relaxing. Jack waited until her breathing became deep and regular, then indulged himself in what he felt was an innocent enough kiss to the space just beside her ear. Then he made to get to his feet. Made to remove himself from the temptation sleeping there in his bed. AnaMaria could stay here with her, and he could throw himself back into the familiar and welcome task of piloting his fine ship to her destination. To escape from having to think too hard on what foolishness was sounding in his head right now.

Jack raised himself up -- and found himself anchored, a slight tug at his head keeping him in place. He looked, and experienced another one of those strange sensations in his middle upon discovering himself tethered by her small hand wrapped around one long rope of his hair.

For a moment he wondered what his First Mate would think if she walked into his cabin just then, and found him like this -- bent over the lady with his body right up there on the bed with her... might just be what made 'Ani' graduate from hard slaps to a full blown right hook, and then where would his poor head be? He pried gently at the imprisoning fingers, but Miranda stirred, mewing unhappily.

Defeated, Jack sighed, and shifted awkwardly around until he managed to hook his chair with a toe, pulling it closer so as to seat himself, the length of his dreadlock stretched between them. Crossing his arms on the edge of the bed, he studied her now untroubled face, noting at the same time the subtle shift and surge of the _Pearl's_ keel as she turned into her new course. After a while, his eyes grew heavy.

"Have it your way," he murmured. "My Lady." Then, with a yawn, he lowered his head to his crossed arms, and slept.

AnaMaria woke him only a short time later, her hands uncharacteristically gentle on his shoulders. He squinted blearily up at her, then glanced to the bed. Miranda had released her hold on him, turned now on her other side, presenting him with her back.

Jack rose from his seat. "Would you...?" he began, waving the girl to take his place.

"Aye," AnaMaria finished for him. "I'll look after her now." And she seated herself at the bedside with not so much as a mockingly lifted eyebrow as she watched him pull the rich fabric of his blanket over their sleeping charge. Leaving the ladies, he made his way down through the ship, refamiliarizing himself with his hard wooed and won '_Dark Lady_', as he often did after a narrow escape or successful raid. Running his hands over her bulkhead, pressing his ear against the closely spaced ribs of her hull. Listening to her voice as she whispered to him in that unique way of hers that touched a part of him that no mere ship -- no one -- ever could.

_No one?_ a small voice in the back of his head questioned slyly, and the thought was accompanied by the image of a small hand closed around his hair. By the memory of gentle caresses, and that sweet sound he liked to believe that only he could coax from...

He shook himself, and leaned his forehead against the thick timber, dark within and without, pushing these distractions aside as he turned, climbing to the second deck where he wove his way in and around the hammocks strung for snoring crewmen who waited for the call to wake them, and to keep the _Pearl_ sailing through the night.

Twenty one steps. He could take them blindfolded, and still unerringly find the companionway to the gundeck. Then another eight steps up the ladder, and he emerged into bright daylight, where men greeted him with smiles and boisterous hails. Tearlach reached out to clap him on the back as he passed, while he heard some call out "Lucky Jack!", and others, "Mad Cap'n Sparrow does it again!", and "Did you see it? Never agreed to the Frog's terms, he didn't -- and we never struck our colors, neither!" He grinned back in his usual cocksure fashion. This day had been the stuff of legends, alright, and the legend of Captain Jack Sparrow would only increase because of it.

Relieving Mr. Cotton at the wheel, Jack advised the mute -- and his feathered mouth piece -- to catch some much deserved rest. He stayed at the helm till long after nightfall, even taking a hurried meal right there in spite of the many offers to stand in for him. But this was where he belonged, and even the late afternoon rain couldn't drive him from guiding his _Lady_.

After all, they'd saved each other's lives today. He lead her by compass point, and when the sun was gone, steered her by the stars glimpsed through the rain clouds, and she danced for him, swaying and surging beneath his feet. Comforting him when his mind became too full of weighty, worried thoughts of godlike foes and cursed rings and terrible forces of nature that hunted like hounds urged on by a chilling, inhuman voiced master.

From slender fingers wrapped around one long, dark rope of a dreadlock. From soft green eyes, and softer, beckoning lips that pleaded with him not to leave.

He relented only when the mid watch began, on the fading note of the eighth bell that announced midnight, when his head drooped, and his eyelids were so heavy he could barely hold them open. Then Klebar stood at the helm, wishing him a good sleep as Jack took himself back below. Back to his cabin, where he paused at the door with his hand frozen on the latch, struck with a sudden wild and impossible hope.

He knew better, though -- knew her better. Jack cursed himself for a fool, and opened his door into a room empty as he told himself it would be. The table clear of bottles and jars, the leather case nowhere to be seen, and his bed neatly made, with the heavy, deep blue brocade cover folded down at the one corner, waiting for him.

How very like her, Jack thought while shedding his wet garments, to leave not even the slightest hint that she'd ever been here. Cold comfort indeed, as he slipped naked between the sheets, the shock of the cool fabric retreating soon enough from the heat of his body.

But as he lay his head down, he found that he'd been wrong; she had left something behind after all. Turning his face into the pillow, Jack groaned at that familiar, faint trace of orange blossoms and sandalwood -- the scent of her hair that entered into him, and tried to lure his weary body back to painful, aroused awareness.

Mercifully, fatigue won out this time, and sleep settled over him, winning him away. Though not before his last thought was of knowing that at least he wouldn't dream tonight of Miranda's gentle, imprisoning fingers closing around his hair. Oh no. Not at all.

She already had them wrapped around his heart.

o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o

**A/N part 2: **And there you have it, folks. The chapter that wouldn't shut up! Once again proving that brevity is NOT my strong suit! And as this one got to go to press with no Beta-ing or proofing, any and all typos, mispunctuations, and grammatical whoopsies (and I know there are an abundance of these) are Na-na-na, na-na, na-na-noooooooooo... body's fault but mine. (with profound apologies to the great Mr. Robert Plant)

**Lemmypie** and **Eternalhope08**: LOL! I applaud your staying power in slogging through all the preceding chapters at once! Thank you, and I'm VERY flattered to have hooked you, kept you from your chores, and otherwise entertained. It means a lot. Really! Hope you've enjoyed this installment. At least it's not a cliffie, too!

**Velly**: cackles evily Weeeellll... I'll admit, it was fun to leave it there like that. Be glad you came in to the story when you did, and didn't have to suffer the wait after my infamous: "Then, he pulled the trigger" chapter. That one earned me some unflattering names. grin

**AJ-Sparrow**: Thank you! May I have that really, really, really long review now? Aw, come on! -- I was sick! No, really! Really! cries

**Captain T**: ... Ouch! Do you really think that a rating change is going to ruin this story:( I just don't want this whole thing to be deleted for violation of the site's TOS policies... I've seen a number of rather arbitrary deletions lately, and wanted to cover my bum, as it were. cries again

**Eledhwen**: Wheee! Thank you! Oh -- and thank you also for pointing out to me that impropper usage of 'mon', instead of 'ma'. I WILL keep forgetting about the masculine/femanine prefixes in other languages... snarl And sometimes I have enough problems using my own language... Anyway, I'll be repairing that as soon as I can see straight again. Thank you again. Glad to be engaging!

**Berne**: eeeep! Dives for cover! Yes, it wasn't very nice, was it? ... But have I redeemed my poor, 'orrible self? Thank you, thank you, thank you! Do I get that 'proper review' now? LOL! I know, I'm a feedback whore. Ducks from the power of Berne's evil eye! Love you too! Still in awe of "Numbers"... whoa!

**An Impatient Zorrita**: LOL! Have I invoked your wrath again in making you wait for this one? (Sorry!) So glad you liked the last chapter. How's this one grab you? LOL! Yes, I'm shameless. Blame it on the outrageous amounts of medication I've had this past week. (ugh...)

**Hendercats**: I liked the "scampering like a demented squirrel" bit myself. Oh, heck -- I just really enjoyed that whole scene! I wish they'd all cooperate like that one. And as always, I'm eagerly awaiting WRITING the next chapter. (sigh...) Some are more cooperative than others. And then there's this one, which wouldn't bloody leave me alone! Thank you! There was just something very... "right" to me about the Pearl catching Jack. Hey -- that outstretched arm just HAD to be put into play! Glad this was a "good read"!

**Bluegreenskye**: There really was a lot going on in that last chapter, wasn't there? For a while, I was afraid it was going to be too much, but everything thankfully seemed to work out. whew! Yeah, that waterspout was on my mind for a while. Giving it a kind of personality and intent was a whole new brand of fun all its own. Hope I can get the next one out in fairly short order... of course, every time I say something like that, RL usually steps up with a baseball bat. LOL! So I might have just jinxed myself. (runs to the pine board and knocks frantically!)

Again, thank you all for your encouraging words! They really do keep me going!

Please, please, please let me know what you think of this one, and I'll see you soon with the next bit!


	32. Chapter 28

Greeting, all. My goodness -- it's been a very long time since my last posting. I'm afraid Real Life's been... well, more than a little bit too real. I feel like I've been careening from crisis to crisis like a drunken sailor, but at least I can take some lovely escape time, and dive headlong into this tale every once in a while. Thanks, everyone, for being so patient with me. And for all those who reviewed the last chapter, I cannot thank you enough! That was a particularly fun one to write. The dynamics between these two help keep me sane, I think. LOL! The opening of this chapter was... not as much fun. (Mental floss! MENTAL FLOSS!) But these characters are neccessary too, and so... with a reminder that everything you recognize here most likely belongs to Disney/Bruckheimer, I give you the very much un-Beta'ed... 

****

Chapter 28

"My Lord?"

Edward Dunnthorpe glanced up from his seat, careful not to turn his head as his valet scraped the razor over his chin with a practiced hand.

"We are within hailing distance of the _Charybdis_, my Lord," Captain Rollings' man, Lewis, informed. Or was it Nevis? Edward never could keep track of these people.

"And?"

Nevis -- perhaps it was Clarence -- tightened his lips. "Their Captain explained that Lord Mehtis is indisposed, but that we are to continue in a southeasterly direction."

Edward curled his lips into a sneer while the valet, Tullington, now mopped at his face with a dampened towel. "Is that so?" He grabbed at the towel, scrubbing at the soapy residue himself while Tullington artfully arranged the waves of the long, blonde wig. Satisfied with his handiwork, Tullington stepped back, and Edward rose.

"We'll see about that. Order Rollings to bring us alongside. I'll question them myself." The thin faced Clarence -- definitely Clarence, Edward told himself -- nodded sharply, lips compressing even further.

"I shall inform him at once, my Lord."

His departure went unnoticed as Edward busied himself with his reflection. Straightening the line of his waistcoat, tugging the brocade of his coat to fall 'just so'. Wouldn't do to have these lowly merchant sailors think him any less than the very image of authority. Pleased with what was reflected back at him, he left his marginally tolerable stateroom for the open air above, where the _Sovereign Crown_'s Captain awaited him.

"Milord Dunnthorpe," Rollings greeted, bowing his head in the proscribed fashion. Gesturing to starboard, he went on, "At this speed, we are as close as we dare."

Edward drew himself up and strode to the rail. He was a tall man, and knew he cut an impressive figure. What a rankling bit of an annoyance it was, therefore, to know that the only men who didn't seem to realize this were the upstart heathen vermin that populated his patron's vessel. Rollings stepped up beside him, offering the use of his speaking trumpet. This Edward accepted, raising it while his eyes sought out the fellow who captained the ship that paced along beside his own.

"Halloo, the _Charybdis_! Lord Edward Dunnthorpe demands audience with the master of your vessel." He thought for a moment, then added, "Come about, and prepare to receive me at once."

Much to his great irritation, it was not Mehtis that appeared to give answer, nor was it even the Captain of the broad keeled _Charybdis_, but that insolent upstart, Cyriacus, instead.

"I regret to inform the Baron of Laeven that we my not honor his petition. We must not be slowed today."

Edward ground his teeth together. Petition indeed! "Where is Mehtis, you impertinent toad? Produce him at once, I say!"

Cyriacus remained unflappable. "Kuriakos Typh... my Lord Mehtis may not be disturbed this day, Lord Baron. He has exhausted himself in seeking out that which we pursue, and must have rest." The little man's face grew concerned. "His attendants work even now to restore him. Perhaps by evening, he will be able to speak with you." Then, the wretch's look became insolent again. "However, it is my Lord's desire that you, Lord Baron, continue with your ship in the heading we have already provided. My Lord will not countenance another delay." So saying, the swarthy little man turned his back and departed the rail. Edward sputtered after him, then gave up, thrusting the speaking trumpet roughly into Rollings' hands.

"Filthy heathen wretch!" he snarled. "Where are they leading us this time?"

Rolings frowned. "I can't be certain of that, Milord. We show no sign of anchoring at Cuba, as first suspected. If we continue on our current heading, we'll eventually cross the Windward Passage, and be in range of Hispaniola and Haiti." The Captain cleared his throat decorously. "It would perhaps be prudent to make anchorage there, Milord. We haven't had chance to take on fresh stores since departing Jamaica so quickly."

"I'm aware of that," Edward snapped. "Send your man to inform me of any changes, Rollings. I intend to take dinner in my room tonight." He stalked away, head full of the cheering image of putting his hands around that Cyriacus' throat for a few minutes. Even better if this could be followed by a brief time alone with the disobedient little witch who was the cause of his tramping around the West Indies, so far from civilized accommodations.

"Brandy," he commanded, back in his stateroom. Tullington raised a fine crystal snifter on a small tray a moment later. Edward drank deeply, then stared into the wide mouthed glass, swirling the remains lazily about. The fine liquor seeped into his brain, relaxing his tensed muscles.  
Patience, he told himself. Patience and tolerance. Not that much to ask for, really. Not when everything he could possibly dream of would soon be his, served out on a platter much like his beverage had. All that would be left would be the taking of it.

Ah -- the taking would be sweetest of all. The thought alone raised in him a different, but familiar tension of its own.

"How is Louise?" he asked, taking another sip and savoring it this time. "Still abed, claiming '_mal du mer_'?"

"I couldn't say, Milord," Tullington answered carefully. "Though her maid did mention that Miss Roth's appetite appeared to be returning."

"Really?" A welcome change, at least. Bad luck on his part to choose the company of a mistress so ill suited for sea travel. "Well then, tell her her presence is required. Seasick or no, it's not as if she'll need to be on her feet to be entertaining."

Tullington's face was its usual study in bland attentiveness, although for a moment, Edward thought he detected a frown on that austere visage. He told himself he'd imagined it. Tullington knew his place. Knew it wasn't for him to approve or disapprove of his master's ways.

"At once, Milord," the valet replied. "Will Milord require anything else?"

"No service you can perform," Edward said with a ribald laugh. "On your way, man, and tell her not to be all day about it."

"Yes, Milord."

But Louise proved to be not the best of company this day. Certainly not her most scintillating performance to date. Adequate for his needs, he supposed, but afterward he snapped at her, sending her weeping to her room.

Afternoon stretched into evening, and still no word from Mehtis. Restless, Edward took the air above, pacing impatiently from stem to stern, and back. Casting his eyes to the silent, lantern-hung _Charybdis_, waiting for a sign that was a long time in coming.

When the sign did come, it was not one that he'd expected. As the moon rose high overhead, draining all color from the _Sovereign Crown_ and _Charybdis_, save for the glow of the lanterns, that eerie change that Edward remembered from many days ago began anew. Once more, he saw men lift a tarpaulin over the side, sending some unfortunate's body into the waters.

Edward shuddered, recalling the sight of that withered husk he'd watched these savages dispose of that first time. It looked to be the same thing happening now. but the chanting didn't end with the disappearance of this latest body, and soon a second body was lifted to join its shipmate, splashing into the waves to vanish from sight. Though not before the moonlight shone fully upon the desiccated face, contorted into a masque of pain, and upon the snowy crown, white as an old, old grandfather's.

"They at it again?"

Edward started violently, and glared at the speaker, a scathing reprimand ready on his lips. Then, he realized that it was not himself the sailor addressed, but Rollings' Bo'sun. The two stood nearby, watching the proceedings with interest.

"Stupid, rogerin' blighters," noted the Bo'sun with disdain. Then, he added in a low voice, "That's the third one they've lost since Jamaica. Ye don' think they've got the sickness over there, do ye?"

"Dunno," the other said, shaking his head. "But there ain't gold enough t' make me want ta set foot over there with that lot." The Bo'sun muttered in agreement, then noticed Edward's eye on them. The pair shifted nervously, and returned to a silent study of the _Charybdis_.

Their funerary rites apparently over, the chanting ended, and Mehtis' men turned away, moving in slow procession.

"Guess the show's over," the Bo'sun quipped dryly. His friend sniggered, returning with a comment of his own that Edward missed entirely, for at that moment, every man visible on the Charybdis suddenly fell to their knees, lowering their faces as Mehtis himself lurched into view with halting, jerky steps. Clutching the loose fabric of his robes around him, he halted amidship, glancing wildly about as if uncertain of where he was.

In quite the opposite of his previous desires, Edward now found himself hoping that his benefactor not notice him at all. The normally impassive face was twisted into a snarl. A frenzied rage that made Edward's blood seem to seize in his veins as Mehtis' eye raked the _Sovereign Crown_, landing upon himself, and then those piercing eyes bored into him with a mad, compelling force that nearly drove him to his knees in emulation of those on the _Charybdis_ now genuflecting before their master.

Then, he was released as Mehtis spun away, raising his face and his arms to the skies, calling out with a shatteringly loud voice in words that Edward couldn't begin to understand, but which froze him to the marrow. The foreign madman continued his tirade - to the stars, or to whatever pagan god caught his fancy, Edward didn't know or care. He only wished that Mehtis would be silent before Edward found himself sprawled humiliated on deck in plain sight of the crews of both ships.

In the end, he got his wish. His so-strange benefactor dropped to his haunches, robe slipping to bare his moon-pale back, shoulders heaving as he panted like a man half drowned.

"Merciful Christ, defend us!" a voice quavered out in the stunned silence that followed. The sailor, Edward realized, wrenching his eyes from the _Charybdis_: the same who'd mocked the sea burial earlier was now down on hands and knees, a look of horror on his weathered face. Beside him, the Bo'sun was curled into a shivering ball, with his hands pressed hard to his ears. Edward glanced about, seeing many men on the _Sovereign Crown_ in a similar state, clutching at whatever was at hand to hold themselves upright.

He felt a surge of elation. Only he stood unaided! Only he, it seemed, had the strength to withstand the power that drove lesser men to grovel like frightened animals. Edward almost laughed aloud at the realization.

Aboard the Charybdis, Mehtis' men cautiously lifted their heads. None of them made to rise... perhaps they were unwilling to do so with their master still crouched low. Then, Cyriacus came forward, speaking too quietly to hear in the distance between the two ships. Pulling the robe to cover Mehtis' shoulders, the little man's concern was genuine and he helped his master to stand, remaining close to allow the much taller man to lean heavily against him.

Edward watched the pale lord nod slowly, and Mehtis lifted his head to face the _Sovereign Crown.  
_  
"We run through the night," he said flatly, his strange voice amplified, carrying easily, though Mehtis hadn't shouted. "We are gaining, Edward. I tell you, it will not be long now."

Edward decided not to mention that this was what his partner had already promised him several times before. It was probably not wise to provoke another display of temper from the man. He had a sudden image of himself joining those shriveled corpses in their watery grave, and had no desire to make it a reality. Prudently, he settled for a brief, but dignified nod. Not a bow of acquiescence, he told himself, but a gesture between equals.

One black brow arched sharply, and for a moment, Edward thought he saw the beginnings of a mocking smile bend Mehtis' lips. Then, the pale face became stony.

"When we meet," he pronounced coldly. "When I again have what is mine, she dies."

Edward pondered this while Mehtis, still supported by his servant, allowed himself to be lead below. No doubt left. The troublesome Lady Warringford's sentance had been pronounced, and by no less than a man whose sway over his followers lead them to prefer death before betraying him. Edward remembered the quiet cluster of men who had accompanied their Lord on the Sovereign Crown as they'd sailed into Montego Bay. He'd seen the aftermath of their disastrous raid against his once-wife's home. Watched from his carriage as the last of them died laughing in the face of the soldiers. These men would carry out Mehtis' orders without question, or thought for their own safety.

What an intoxicating thought to command such power. If what Mehtis promised him were to prove true, Edward would discover this for himself. But in order to do so, first, the quarrelsome wench would have to be disposed of.

In that moment, Edward almost felt sorry for her. A moment that passed quickly enough. Edward had never been one to stand on sentiment, and Miranda had proven to be ever so vexing to him. Returning to his stateroom, he allowed himself another brandy while waiting for his chef to send his meal. The liquor warmed him. Helped to dull the effects that Mehtis and that damnably oppressive voice had over him. He shuddered, still unnerved by the sight of those arms raised to the heavens, while that voice raged, cutting the air like a whip. Edward downed his drink, pouring himself another generous serving as another irksome idea squirmed its way through his head: Mehtis, with his arms raised to the heavens, the sleeves of his voluminous robes falling back to his elbows. Mehtis, with hand outstretched, fingers curling into claws.

But what of his other hand -- the one seemingly immobilized? Edward frowned in concentration. It did no good. No matter how hard he tried to rationalize it, no matter how many times he told himself that it must have been some trick of the moonlight, the conclusion of his own eyes remained the same: two arms lifted, one hand with pale fingers curling into claws.

The other... simply wasn't there.

"What does that mean?" he asked aloud.What was this madness that he'd willingly, even eagerly made himself a part of? No answer was readily forthcoming, save for the feeling that a lead weight had just settled into the pit of his stomach.

0-0-0-0-0-0-0

"Tortuga, Cap'n! Tortuga at two points off our beam!"

Miranda lifted her head at the call, hands stilling their work.

"Tiggs," Mr. Vinccensi identified. "He's spotted it. Should be in range by nightfall." Between them, the pirate named Duncan grinned, tapping his foot excitedly.

"Hold still, you idiot," Vinccensi snapped. "Should make sure Cap'n doesn't let you go ashore at all, what with you poppin' your stitches like that."

"But Rat --"

"None o' your lip, Duncan. D'you want to be keepin' that hand, or should I fit you up with a stump cap and a hook right here?"

Duncan opened his mouth to object further, but winced as Miranda passed her needle once again through the skin at the back of his wrist, tying off another neat knot. "Now, now," she soothed. "I'm sure there won't be need for anything so drastic as that... yet." Daubing fresh blood from the ugly gash, she reached for the bottle of whiskey, warning as she tipped the liquor onto his skin, "Once, more, Mr. Duncan."

The pirate squeezed his eyes shut, face paling beneath his tan as the whiskey stung him.

"Very good, Mr. Duncan," Miranda encouraged, drying the cut gently with a clean square of linen. A quick application of her balm, followed by a thin wrapping of gauze, and she reached for the expertly carved wooden 'cradle' that Mr. Kursar had brought for her minutes earlier. Fitting this to the inside of Duncan's palm and wrist, she bound the arm with a thick layer of bandages.

"This will need to be changed, and often," she said, tucking the ends in to secure them. "And this brace should see that you're not able to re-injure yourself in the same way. Now, I want to see you back here first thing tomorrow, Mr. Duncan."

Duncan looked to the surgeon, who nodded firmly. "Stay out of those tops 'til we say different," Vinccensi ordered, sending the man on his way. Pouring a scoop of sand onto the puddled mixture of bloodied water and whiskey, he shook his head with a sigh.

"Might know he'd be fool enough to do just the opposite of what I tell 'im."

"We'll have to watch him," Miranda said, going through the careful steps of sanitizing her instruments, and washing her hands in the basin of clean water. "Should he take a fever, I've medicines to help bring it down." Vinccensi laughed, adding another scoop of sand to the deck.

"Oh, no problem believing that, miss. But I'll bet you he'll be back here bleeding again, and if not him, it'll be one of the others doing something stupid, and then it'll be..." He screwed up his face, and raised his voice in a parody of distress. "Rat, you gotta help me. Rat, I need somethin' for the pain. Come on, Rat, put me back together, mate." The surgeon rolled his eyes. Miranda smiled in sympathy, having known her share of difficult patients. Then she turned curiously to the little man.

"Rat... I've not understood that. Why do the men call you 'Rat', of all things?"

Vinccensi spread the sand around with his toe, glancing up with a grin. "That's right, you haven't met Bartolo yet, have you?" She shook her head, and his round face beamed proudly. Moving to the sideboard that housed his chest and boxes of drugs and supplies, he picked out a small crate that, as Miranda now saw, had a latch, and a grated cover.

"Found 'im on St. Bartholomew's day, two years back," Vinccensi explained, lifting the grate. He clicked his tongue, dipping his hand into the box.

It took every bit of her self control in that moment to remain calm, and not bolt to the far end of the hold when a long nose, bristling with continuously twitching whiskers, poked out into the air. "Come on out, Barty," Vinccensi coaxed. Miranda stared, surpressing a shudder of revulsion as the white furred body with its long, naked tail, climbed up into the fellow's waiting hand.

"He's a smart little critter," Vinccensi continued, stroking the tiny, black speckled head. "Knows to stick close and not try and run through the ship. Doesn't want to meet up with old Bounce-Gut down in the holds."

The ship's cat, Miranda guessed. She'd met the brindled tom on a few occasions, when the animal had condescended to allow himself to be stroked, before taking himself off to wherever a ship's cat preferred to reside. "I thought the cat's name was Bumbo," she said weakly, eyes fixed on the black, beady pair that seemed to be sizing her up from Vinccensi's hand.

"Aye, but he's been spoiled, that one. Too much good eatin' That don't mean he wouldn't mind serving up poor Barty here as his next meal, though. But Barty's too savvy for that. Knows better than to run off. Here --" Much to her dismay, Vinccensi moved towards her, holding out the disturbing creature. "Barty, why don't you introduce yourself to Miss Miranda?"

_Miss Miranda_? she thought wonderingly. Why, she'd not been called that... well, in more years than she cared to think about. "I don't think..." she stammered, but Vinccensi was already before her, and his rodent put its tiny paws up on the man's thick fingers, leaning out to wiggle its whiskers at the air.

"It's alright, miss, he don't bite -- well, he did nip Matelot that one time, but only because he picked Barty up by his tail. Really, he's gentle as a lamb, Barty is."

The little man's face was so earnest, Miranda couldn't bear to disappoint him. Steeling herself, she extended her hand for the long nose to sniff. Apparently, Bartolo felt she passed inspection. The rat stretched himself out between their two hands, his front paws now balancing squarely on Miranda's forefinger. It wasn't an altogether unpleasant sensation, but still...

"He likes you," Vinccensi announced, pleased. Then, to her renewed consternation, the surgeon brought his hand closer, tipping it so that his pet clambered up onto her wrist. "That's it, that's it," he encouraged. "Don't let 'im fall, now."

Could this voyage possibly become any stranger, she asked herself while she automatically cradled her arm -- and its furry passenger -- to herself, bringing her other hand up to protect Vinccensi's pet... vermin from tumbling to the floor -- deck... _sole_. Whatever the surface beneath her feet was known as, for Heaven's sake! Why did sailors feel the overwhelming need to name every single part of their vessels differently than their landbound counterparts? For that matter, what in the world was she doing here, with a great, filthy rat waving its dreadful, pointed snout about in intimate examination of her bosom?

"Now, you behave yourself, Bartolo," Vinccensi admonished. "Don't you go gettin' to personal with Her Grace."

_Her Grace_? "No," she corrected with a nervous laugh. "No, that would apply to a Duchess, or clergy, of which I am nei-_aaie_!" She couldn't hold back her cry as the rat took that moment to scuttle up her dress to her shoulder, and flinched as a tiny ice-chip of a nose, and a double portion of tickling whiskers brushed the side of her neck. Miranda heard snuffling sounds, and fought to keep from screaming at the top of her lungs.

"What... what is he doing?" she demanded instead, in a high, frantic whisper. Carefully, she angled her head to catch a glimpse of the little beast.

"Only smelling you, miss. Just making your aquaintence-like. See?" The man grinned from ear to ear. "He's feeling right comfortable. Washin' his face, and everything."

"Washing?" Miranda wished she could see what was happening just beside her ear.

"Aye, miss. Rats are tidy little bugge -- er... beasties. Always cleaning himself, this one is, and you should hear the fuss he puts up if I don't keep his box up to snuff." He leaned against the table, watching his pet fondly. "Why, give 'im a bit to get hisself in order, and he'll be taking to grooming you next."

"Is that so?" asked a new voice. Miranda felt a wave of heat pass through her as Jack Sparrow quietly entered the surgeon's hold. "Lucky rodent."

"Cap'n," Vinccensi greeted, while from the corner of her eye, Miranda saw Bartolo move to the edge of her shoulder. From there, she could see the rat lift his head, whiskers in constant motion as his nose worked furiously.

"Duncan said the two of you just patched him up. Again." Sparrow closed the door behind him. "But now I find you inflicting your vicious little monster on her Ladyship, here."

Oddly enough, Vinccensi made no outcry at these disparaging words regarding his pet. For his part, Bartolo startled Miranda all over again when the rat filled his lungs until his sides expanded like tiny bellows, and let out a sharp, and rather imperious squeak.

"Alright, alright, you evil thing." Rifling through his pockets, Sparrow approached. "Now, where did I put that -- ah! Here's a treat for His Nibs, then." One hand emerged with a small, cloth wrapped bundle, which, when unwrapped, revealed a piece of hard cheese. He broke off a corner, and Bartolo practically danced on her shoulder as the Captain lifted his hand.

"Leave the fingers," he warned firmly. "Or it's straight into the stew pot with you."  
Stretching out as far as he could, Bartolo neatly took up the offering in his teeth, then balanced on his hindquarters, forepaws wrapped around his prize as he busily gnawed his way through it. Resigned, Miranda watched crumbs of cheese spot the front of her dress.

"Not so tidy about his eating, is he?" Sparrow observed, scratching the spotted head with a fingertip. Miranda felt another rush of warmth as he lifted his head with a smile that sparkled in his dark eyes. "How is it that Milady has found herself as Barty's latest perch?"

"Oh..." She cleared her throat nervously. "Well, I had simply asked as to how Mr. Vinccensi acquired his rather odd name, and..." She gestured to her furry guest, who was presently licking his paws clean with meticulous care.

"And Rat decided to spring him on you, did he?" Sparrow glanced to the surgeon, who grinned like an imp. "Probably didn't bother to warn her first, I'll wager."

Vinccensi shrugged. "Wasn't that bad for her," the little man said with a touch of defensiveness. "Joshamee 'bout climbed up on the table first time Barty said hello, an' Crimp screamed like a maiden lady -- no offense, miss," he added to Miranda, who only raised her brows.

"Well, her Ladyship is made of stronger stuff than that, Rat. Sure you've seen that by now. But now, if you don't mind, I'll just come to the lass' aid, here." The Captain raised his arm to her shoulder, elbow crooked as if offering to escort a lady. Bartolo wasted no time, but scampered up Sparrow's coat sleeve, to disappear under the wild mane of hair.

Very strange... Miranda was almost sorry to see the little creature go. He had been rather docile, sitting on her shoulder. Not that she felt any great need to go out and acquire a pet rodent of her own, but even so... How very remarkable.

"See he's left you a bit of a mess," Sparrow said, brushing specks of cheese from the muted heather of her sleeve.

Miranda shivered, then cursed herself. Was she so sorely lacking in simple control that the merest brush of the man's hand could reduce her to this? Luckily, he didn't seem to notice. She cast about for something to distract herself from his nearness, and found salvation in the peculiar site of Bartolo's long, naked tail now hanging over the Captain's other shoulder, looking for all the world like just another piece of Jack Sparrow's unusual ornamentation.

"Hey!" he protested suddenly, reaching up to grab at his hair. No, Miranda realized, not his hair, but at the string of beads hanging from his temple. She saw the ornate, be-dangled coin disappear under the mass of dreadlocks, and covered her mouth with a hand. Little Bartolo obviously found Sparrow's decorations as intriguing as her horse, Reisen had.

"Hey!" Sparrow cried again. "Ouch! Rat, I'll be feeding your mange-riddled shoe brush to the cat if he doesn't let go!" He bent awkwardly, trying to dislodge his now very unwelcome passenger, then snatched his hands away when Bartolo sounded off with another strident vocalization.

Vinccensi was of no help at all, Miranda saw. Not while leaning against his operating table, with his booming laughter filling the cabin. "Oh, for Heaven's sake," she sighed, reaching into the dark mane, fingers closing around the squirming little body. Disentangling little Bartolo from Sparrow's hair was a simple enough task.

Convincing the animal to release the Captain's beads from his teeth and paws proved to be another matter entirely.

"This is a pirate's pet, is he not?" she asked through her own laughter as this ridiculous game of tug-of-war escalated.

"What of it?" the owner of said beads returned, wincing as his hair received another strong yank.

"Well, he's found his treasure. Nothing to be done about it, Captain Sparrow. As you'd prefer to keep your trinkets, and I've no wish to be bitten, you must offer him something that he wants more."

"What -- oh!" His hand dove into his pocket, returning with the remains of the small wedge of cheese. "Here, you wretched little devil," he snapped, waving it before the tiny nose. "Here, I say!"

It was like magic. Bartolo's paws were away from the Captain's beads and clamped around the tidbit in the man's fingers almost before she could blink. Sparrow straightened, rubbing at his scalp, and scowling at the rat, now busily devouring his meal in Miranda's hands.

"So much for gratitude," he muttered, then had the effrontery to wink at her. "You see? I told you I'd have you thinking like a pirate in no time."

Miranda studied the crumbs of cheese that clung to Bartolo's whiskers. "Either that, or I'm far better versed on the mental processes of rodentia than I'd imagined. I'm not sure which concerns me more." This earned her a snort, and then the Captain wheeled on his surgeon.

"Fat lot of good you were."

"Oh, no." Vinccensi held up a hand. "You'll not be pinnin' this on me, Cap'n. You know full well he does this every time you're by, so you've only got your own self to be blamin' for it."

Sparrow gazed haughtily down his nose. "So that's the way of things, is it? Well, then..." He drew himself up, radiating injured offense. "I can see where I stand here. Milady?" Sketching a, florid bow, he turned to her. "May I trouble you to accompany me from this vermin infested place?"

Miranda swallowed hard. "But... but Bartolo --"

"Oh, he won't mind, miss. I'll take him now." Vinccensi stepped up, retrieving his pet. Sure enough, it would appear that while he was eating, the little rat didn't care who held him. "Thanks for helpin' with Duncan."

"I... er... yes. You're welcome, Mr. Vinccensi." Washing her hands clean of the debris from Bartolo's meal, Miranda reached for her case, only to find that Captain Sparrow had anticipated her.

"I've got it," he announced unnecessarily, then offered his arm. "Shall we?"

Having no way to gracefully refuse, she accepted his waiting elbow, allowing herself to be lead from the cabin. He stepped aside to allow her to precede him up the companionway, then guided her silently through the ship, stopping all at once at the door to AnaMaria's quarters.

"You'll be wanting to drop this here, I'm guessing," he said evenly at her questioning look.

"Oh." She glanced at her case, still carried easily under his arm. "Yes... yes, of course. Thank you, Captain." He smiled. One that didn't quite reach his eyes, this time. Then he stood aside while she entered the tiny cabin, placing her medicines beside her bed in such a way as to not be easily tripped over.

"Miranda?"

She froze. "Yes, Captain?"

"I..."

Was this it? Would he confront her now about her shameful, wanton behavior of yesterday?

"I... you may want to take this back now, lady."

Miranda turned, finding him still in the doorway, his face guarded, and with her mother's ring in his outstretched hand.

"You'll need this soon, with any luck," he said seriously as she rose to claim it. "We're coming up on Tortuga."

"Yes, I heard the call from your lookout, earlier." There was no sense of relief at this, the topic of discussion. Rather, one of... disappointment. Bitter, raw, and (even worse!) as powerful now as it had been yesterday.

_Yesterday... in his bed_. Miranda shook herself, closing the ring safely away in her case.

"Mr. Vinccensi mentioned that we should reach the island by nightfall. Are we to go ashore then?"

"Ah... no." Sparrow leaned against the doorframe, crossing one foot over the other. "No, I think I'll just take that little trip myself. If Gorsse it there like he's supposed to be, won't take me long to find out where the good 'Reverend' is keeping himself these days. Besides..." His lips curled in a sneer that held more than a touch of self mockery. "When the sun goes down there, things tend to get... lively."

Miranda cocked her head. "A 'rough town'?"

His brows lifted. "You could call it that, surely enough. And also what you'd have to describe as egalitarian, if you understand me."

She did. Or, at least she thought she might have. A rule of law where all were equal -- but it was pirate law that would be the rule in this place. Pirates who were most likely not cut from the same cloth as this man, and his crew that had hosted her thus far. Miranda felt an urge to flee to the lowermost regions of the Black Pearl, and hide there until this dreadful business was done with.

"Thank you," she said flatly. "I feel ever so much better now."

He barked a short laugh. "That's why I'll be scouting this out myself. No sense in your coming ashore 'til we're certain, eh? And things do tend to be a bit calmer in daylight."

Sound reasoning, to her mind. Perhaps it could be considered cowardly of her to be so gladdened to not face this ordeal just yet, but still...

"It will be tomorrow, then?"

"Aye, tomorrow. With any luck," he reminded. Then, "There was also the small matter of a letter mentioned, I believe? Vague. Non descript. To your people?" he prompted when she only stared blankly.

"Oh..." Miranda frowned. "That's... that's right, I was going to..." She went to her chest, hunting for her stationary amidst the many essentials she'd managed to squeeze into one small space. "I'm afraid I rather forgot."

"Can't say as I blame you, what with all yesterday's happenings."

Her stomach tightened. Painfully. Then, that pain was replaced by an ache far deeper in her being, and far more insidious. There, pulsing again and again with every beat of her heart. All at once, echoing in her mind, the sound of a barely whispered, 'please', and the memory of the softest of brushes against her lips that grew into something so much more profound, and Miranda felt her knees tremble. She sank into the chair, setting parchment and inkwell before her on AnaMaria's small table.

She dared not look to the man in the doorway. Certainly, he must only mean what events had occurred above deck. If she looked at him now, he would surely know that enemy ships and supernatural weather were not the events that rose in her mind at the mention of yesterday.

"Terrifying," she managed in agreement with his words. "Ani told me what that awful man wanted. Truly, Providence was with us."

"Providence... aye, I suppose you could say that."

Silence, heavy and tense, fell between them. Miranda imagined she could hear every wave that touched their hull. Every rustle of the wind through the _Black Pearl_'s ebony sails, and every voice and step of each person aboard.

"Are you... are you alright, lass?"

Alright? She would never be 'alright' again. But marshaling herself, she arranged her look into one of mild curiosity, and lifted her head.

"Should I not be?"

Sparrow's eyes were suspicious. "You're taking this awfully well for someone who was this close to shuffling off this mortal coil." His held up a hand, thumb and forefinger showing only a tiny space between them.

Miranda smiled faintly. "It would hardly be the first time I've found myself with one foot in the grave, Captain Sparrow," she admitted, then regretted it when she saw his eyes narrow. "And this from a man who escaped the noose by the breadth of Mr. Turner's blade and the executioner's poor aim, only to return immediately to the very life that landed him on the gallows to begin with?"

He winced. "Touche, lady. But if I may make a suggestion? Make your letter out to Elizabeth."

"Mrs. Turner? But I barely know her."

His hands lifted, emphasizing words with his gestures. "Exactly my thinking. Should make it all the easier to keep things on the impersonal side, savvy? Then, you could just add in a line or so asking her and her good husband to send word to your fair estate. Tell them to keep things in order for you, and that you expect to return in... oh, say, a fortnight or two?" Then, he added with a shrug, "Just a suggestion, of course."

"Of course," Miranda repeated. "But... do you truly believe that this could happen -- that I may be home in so short a time?" Oh, this was madness! Why would the thought of returning to everything dear to her be accompanied by such a feeling of regret?

Sparrow shrugged again, ducking his head in an apparent scrutiny of the toes of his boots. "Who's to say? I suppose that'll all depend on what you're able to wheedle out of Gorsse. Should be an easy thing for you." He looked up, and a hint of mischief bloomed anew in his eyes. "Two things that always do the trick in that town, luv: fine drink, and a fine lass to share it with. Now, I can't vouch for the drink, but the combination of it and you? -- should bring Tortuga to its knees. I find myself looking forward to the show."

Miranda scowled. "You're not making this any easier on my nerves, Captain." Readying her pen and ink, she regarded him with an arched brow. "If you've nothing further to contribute, perhaps you would be so kind as to leave me to compose this note in peace."

"Oh, come now, lady. No need to get yourself all worked up over it. In fact..." His smile was back, wicked as she'd ever seen on him. "For someone of Milady's caliber, who's navigated the treacherous reefs and shoals of His Majesty's court, and lived to tell the tale; Tortuga should be no more a challenge than... than plucking daisies on a summer's hill in 'Jolly Old England'."

"Captain Sparrow?"

"Yes, Lady Warringford?" he asked, innocently as a babe.

"Get out."

**A/N: **Again, sorry this took so long. Hopefully the next one will cooperate a bit more. But I've got several events coming up in the very near future, so I can't honestly promise anything. The words "cautiously optimistic" come to mind. Thank you again for all your wonderful encouragements, and I hope to see you soon! Oh, and GeekMama -- blows kisses right back at you!


	33. Chapter 29

**Chapter 29**

In a world ever changing, certain things remained consistent: Kings came and went, wars would be replaced by truce and treaties, only to erupt once more in smoke and cannon fire, and the sun would still rise and set. Day gave way to night as surely as the land gave way to ocean and sea.

Unalterable. Immutable, as it were.

The same could be held for the Isla de Tortuga, and the boisterous town at the heart of its harbor.

_As constant as the morning star_, Jack though wryly as he neatly sidestepped the lurching hulk of a tar well gone into his cups.

"Outta th' way!" the fellow slurred belligerently, brushing past Jack as he wove a wide course through the street. He didn't quite manage to reach his destination, though. Whatever drink had last passed the sailor's lips finally reached his head, and the big man halted, listing dangerously to larboard. Two pathetic hiccoughs were followed by a thunderous belch, and the sodden fellow pitched face first into the mud only yards away from the entrance to an establishment whose quality was questionable, even by local standards. It wasn't long before Jack saw a pair of urchins reaching into the recumbent sailor's pockets, making swiftly off with whatever was worth liberating.

One of them: a slight, dark haired lad, pulled up short when he spotted Jack's eye on him. Then the boy grinned cheekily, as if daring Jack to raise objection and come to the fallen man's aid. The little thief darted away to rejoin his compatriot.

Jack couldn't help but to grin in return as the pair melted into a shadowy alley. The lad reminded him of himself at that age: grasping opportunity wherever it presented itself, and smiling devil-may-care in the face of a perceived opponent. If he survived these streets, as Jack had his own boyhood in England, the lad might just go far.

Jack chuckled, continuing on his way with rolling steps and a wary eye through smoky streets bathed orange by torch light, and the glow of a Tortugan sunset.

Gorsse was here, alright. Jack's first steps upon dry land took him straight to the haunt that always seemed to call him back: _The Faithful Bride_ may not have been the best of taverns, but the drink was fairly priced, and not even all that watered down. The owner even went so far as to insist on keeping his ale vats covered, so one could be fairly certain that one wouldn't find dead creatures floating in one's tankard. The food was good, too. Quite high quality, actually, but the true lure of _The Faithful Bride _, at least as far as Jack was concerned, was the owner's wife.

Sophia had been a young thing some 40 odd years ago when the ship she'd sailed on had been waylaid in the Passage. Brought to Tortuga for one of its infamous bride auctions, she'd been sold to a man whose ultimate goal was to leave the dangers of piracy behind him, and settle down into the only slightly less larcenous business of opening his own establishment. Selby Llannon was shrewd enough to pick up on what others missed when they'd passed over the solid, hard eyed Sophia in favor of the more fashionable hothouse flowers sold that day. Recognizing a quick mind and a soul unafraid of hardship, he'd bought the lass, 'married her', and then proceeded to woo his snarling prize to within and inch of her life. Their union had produced _The Faithful Bride _. A place that, though as rowdy as any on the island, was a place where things never got too out of hand. Those that tried to muddy the waters were encouraged to depart... usually by the Llannon's five strapping sons, but also by other patrons who had their own brand of respect for the owners of their favorite watering hole. It was generally known and accepted that Sophia ruled the place with an iron fist.

What was not widely realized or appreciated was the knowledge that Sophia also had a mind like a steel trap. Nothing escaped her keen eyes, and her ears were at least as sharp. As a result of this, and the fact that _The Faithful Bride _ was a popular place to bend an elbow, there was hardly anything or anyone on the Isle of Tortuga that Sophia didn't know about. Jack had counted on this when he visited the tavern.

He'd not been disappointed.

"Thadius Gorsse, you say?" Settled into her favorite chair by the kitchen fire, Sophia's eyes narrowed as she puffed thoughtfully on her pipe. "Tall, squinty-eyed gent? Fond 'o the sound of his own voice? LIkes goin' on in them fancy scholarly words?"

"Sounds to be right to my ear," Jack said with a surge of hope. "You've seen him about, then?" She snorted, causing a great blue cloud of smoke to erupt from around the pipe stem.

"Now and again. Didn't make himself many friends when he came here with his high 'n mighty airs." Sophia rose, moving ponderously to stir the contents of the stew pot hanging over the fire. A delicious aroma filled the air, and Jack felt his stomach growl in appreciation.

"I can believe that," he said, taking advantage of her turned back to steal one of her famous banana muffins from the heaping platter. "Thadius was never what you'd call a humble man -- even in his priestly days."

"He's not lost a hair of it, then." Adding a bowl of vegetables into her concoction, she continued on, stirring with one hand, and her pipe held in the other. "Likes lordin' over our heads he's a man 'o letters, that one. Didn't do him a good turn t' find out most 'o the boys just take them books 'n bits of paper he's so fond of, and use 'em to wrap more powder, or wipe their bums."

Jack winced inwardly, feeling an unexpected sympathy for the defrocked priest. In his own peculiar way, books were a weakness of his own, and he'd often seen many a volume he might have preferred to keep for himself torn apart, the precious paper used to prepare blackpowder charges for the muskets.

"So he's done some work drawin' up ship's articles for them that can't read or write none," Sophia added, pausing to sample her handiwork. "Or he'll do some translatin' when one 'o the boys wants to know what the French or Spanish have t' say about 'em in their tracts."

"Ah. So where does our sanctimonious friend keep himself these days?" Jack reached for another heavenly muffin.

"Oh, most times lately you can find 'im over at Hallard's place. He likes the girls there, an' Georgie puts up with 'im." Then, still bent over her cauldron, the imposing woman gave an exasperated sigh. "Boy!" she bellowed, and Jack immediately released his purloined snack. As always, he wondered if she'd somehow managed the impossible, and had indeed grown a pair of eyes in the back of her head.

"Here." Turning, she thrust her ladle out like a rapier. "Earn your keep, and taste this."

It was exceptional, as always. Jack told her so, and in language both glowing and flowery enough to make the dear woman smile and blush like a maiden. A moment later, a full, steaming bowl was set before him, and he didn't have to pretend the enthusiasm with which he dug into it. Sophia settled back into her chair, puffing on her pipe while studying him critically.

"You don't eat enough, boy," she admonished. "Hardly any meat on your bones, there is. Sure you won't have another?"

Jack pushed back in his chair, rolling his eyes up and patting his belly with a look of satisfaction that was also unfeigned. "Sophia, luv, if I ever fail to resist your wicked temptations, my crew will have to heave me on deck with a hoist, and roll me about." Then, he affected a tragic face. "Just my poor luck old Selby clasped eyes on you first, or I'd have snapped you up for me own before you could say 'Robert's your uncle'."

One iron gray brow lifted sharply. "And wouldn't that have been a sight: the bride burpin' her groom 'n changin' his nappies? Leave off with that bilge, you sly devil!" He laughed and got to his feet. It was an old game between old friends. They'd played it for nearly as long as they'd know each other.

Beyond the kitchen doors, the noise of _The Faithful Bride _'s patrons had increased greatly. Squeals of women, shouts of laughter, and raucous music filled the air. Inevitably, the first musket shot soon followed. NIght had come, and with it, the rowdy festivities that accompanied darkness in this town. Time to be on his way before things got too out of hand. And as Sophia detested protracted farewells almost as much as he did...

"Hate to bolt after imposing on your generosity," Jack said, leaning down to plant a noisy kiss on Sophia's cheek. "But I need to be tracking Gorsse down before it gets any later. Georgie Hallard's place, you said?"

"Aye." Sophia squinted up at him. "N' you be watching after yourself, boy. The _Reaver _ made berth this mornin', and you know Pickham still has it in for you after you made him look the fool."

He thanked her for that as well with another buss to her cheek, then laid a few shillings on the table beside her hand. "Now Jack," she protested. "You know I won't be chargin' you -- no matter how much of my dessert you've pinched."

Jack smiled broadly. Another ongoing joke between them from the days he'd first discovered her culinary skills. "'S not for the food, my darling girl, sublime though it was. That's for the information. You've saved me half a night's poking around this town with but a few minutes in your charming company."

"I know," she said smugly, scooping the coins into a pocket of her apron. "Though the good Lord himself only knows why I put up with your loitering 'round my kitchen."

Jack blinked innocently. "Why else, my darlin' girl? For the secret passion you've kept burning for me all these long years. Though 'twould be a simpler thing if you'd just come out and admit it straight, luv."

Sophia half rose, thick fingers now wrapped around the rolling pin that swung within inches of his nose. Jack fled, laughing, and with her roared curses echoing off the walls behind him.

A casual stroll down a shoddy street populated by the usual quarrelsome denizens that inhabited this cesspool, and Jack stared up at the old, worm eaten, carved figure of a woman playing a many-chambered set of shepherd's pipes. In it's earlier life it had graced the prow of a French ship. Now it served to let all comers know that they stood before the somewhat ramshackle entrance to the _Fiddle and Fife _: an establishment owned and operated by one Georgie Hallard, and if Sophia's information was spot on as usual, home to one defrocked, embittered former Rector of the Bahamas. He watched a sailor stagger out, arm around the waist of a brightly dressed woman whose powdered face simpered up at him. The sailor whispered lasciviously into his companion's ear, and her painted eyes went flat for a moment. Then, the strumpet gave a bray of forced laughter, and steered her tipsy patron to wherever it was that she preferred to conduct business for the night. Next, a pair of weather beaten salts stumbled through the doorway. Arms around each other's shoulders, and a pair of tankards raised in salute, they bellowed their off-key way through a ribald chanty. Jack stood aside to let them pass, then peered carefully into the noisy room.

The _Fiddle and Fife _ was like any other Tortugan alehouse: a riot of sound and movement, and wildly colored clothing glimpsed through the haze of smoking lamps, pipes, and the intermittent pistol discharge. Jack thought he spotted familiar faces here and there, but none belonged to anyone he felt a great desire to fraternize with just then. Deciding that precautionary measures might be in good order, Jack reached into the deep pockets of his frock coat. Withdrawing the rather large onion he'd nabbed from Sophia's stores, he took a determined bite. It made his nose wrinkle, and predictably, his eyes watered. With any luck, anyone who drew too near for his comfort would experience the same.

"Letsh havva 'nother!" a voice rumbled over the din. Focusing on the speaker, Jack's nose wrinkled for a new reason. "'Nother round fer me 'n my matssh!" roared the broad, vastly bearded figure of Tiberius Pickham. The pirate had a buxom wench on one arm, and was gesturing so wildly with the other that the contents of his upraised tankard sloshed over, raining down onto the heads of those seated nearest him. Ignoring their irritated complaints, Pickham continued to yell for more drink.

Jack wished he'd added more coins to what he'd given Sophia. If not for her warning, he might have wandered into the _Fiddle 'n Fife _ without knowing the _Reaver _'s captain was about. Not that Pickham was of any moment to him, and certainly not now, when the Bristol man was so obviously inebriated. But Pickham might just cause enough of a scene to make his life difficult, and Jack was all for avoiding that possibility.

Angling himself out of the bellowing pirate's eyeline, Jack took another bite of onion, wondering how long it could take for Pickham to drink himself into a stupor so that Jack could slip in unobtrusively and search for Gorsse.

Much to his surprise, Pickham solved this problem for him. The big man drained his tankard, ale running from the corners of his mouth, and into the great, bristling expanse of gray-shot red beard, then wiped his mouth on his sleeve, and called out, "You -- Bookman!"

Jack tensed as Pickham reached into his pocket, coming up with a wrinkled bit of folded paper.

"Tell me what the Frenchies are sayin' bout me here." Pickham demanded, pushing his way to a small corner table. He waved the little tract out before him, and a pale hand reached out, snatching the paper from Pickham's fingers in an impatient sort of way. Jack couldn't see the owner of that hand from his vantage point, but he'd already begun to smile.

"Everybody shut it!" Pickham roared. "Bookman's gonna read about me!" His words having no effect on the present noise level, the Reaver's captain drew his pistol, and fired it into the air. "I said shut it!"

The _Fiddle 'n Fife _ became miraculously silent. No sound, save for the scrape of wooden benches, and the nervous giggle of the buxom wench. Satisfied, Pickham stumbled heavily into his seat, pulling his admirer down into his lap.

"In the first place," began the familiar, supercilious drawl of Thadius Gorsse. "This is not a French tract, it is Dutch. And secondly..." Gorsse's voice trailed off on an odd note.

Pickham squinted, bushy eyebrows drawing together. "Well?" he barked. "What've the Dutch to say 'bout me, then?" A long pause followed.

"Secondly," Gorsse's baritone continued smoothly. "This tract isn't about you at all. It was written concerning the exploits of... another."

Pickham tore his gaze from his companion's overflowing bodice to stare blearily in Gorsse's direction. "Well, go on, man," he rumbled, sounding a bit deflated. "Who's it on? Maybe I'll buy 'im a drink if he's still kickin'."

Another span of silence before Gorsse spoke again. When he did, the sneer in his voice was unmistakable. "It would appear that our northern cousins have produced this tract to report on the perfidious activities of one Captain Jack Sparrow."

" _Wha-a-a-t? _" Pickham had jumped to his feet, spilling his startled ladyfriend onto the dirt floor. The Bristolman's face was nearly the same shade as his beard, and he swelled so alarmingly that the buttons of his waistcoat threatened to pop. "That swaggerin', nancin' slip o' nothin'?" Then the big man calmed himself, plopping ungracefully onto the bench.

"Well... read it anyhow," he ordered sullenly. "Maybe 'e managed to go 'n get 'isself hung by now."

Jack's smile had spread to a grin that made his face ache. He really had no reason to remain here: Gorsse was exactly where he was supposed to be, and come the morning, Miranda should be able to charm some answers out of him -- if there were any to be had, of course. But hearing the defrocked priest forced to read a paper on his least favorite person for the entertainment of another who didn't exactly hold Jack in highest regard was simply too much to resist.

And, admittedly, Jack was himself curious as to what the Dutch had to say on him.

Gorsse sighed heavily. "Would that that were so, but I'm afraid we are all destined for disappointment this evening." Then, clearing his throat, he began to read in the bored tones of a lecturer. " _An Account of the Unprovoked and Despicable Attack by the Dreaded Plague of Piracy. Let it be known that on the 17th day of April, in the Year of our Lord, 1729, was the Dutch East India Company's most excellent ship, the _ Flower of Neucander, _ captained by the brave Otto Groeninger, most grievously set upon and stripped of its cargo by those lawless devils that ravage our fair oceans. As reported to your humble author, it was on the forenoon watch that Captain Groeninger's lookout did note the presence of another ship. By the second bell on the afternoon watch, it was determined that the second ship was itself flying the colors of our blessed land. Moreover, this ship's sigels were also those belonging to our East India Company, and therefore, was believed populated by our own brethren. As told me by Captain Groeninger himself, the _ Flower of Neucander _ made sail for their comrade ship, for it seemed in terrible distress, and others have given testimony that the vessel, under bare pole, did list most strongly. It was thought that perhaps they had met with the same threat of pirates that our good merchants have had such cause to fear._

" _A charitable man, Captain Groeninger ordered his ship to meet with the other to give aid, as any good seaman would. Alas, he found himself most foully deceived, for no sooner were the two ships bound together and the boarding planks aligned, did the crew of the Flower of Neucander find themselves overrun by marauders. The leader of these blackguards, identifying himself as one Jack Sparrow, demanded the immediate surrender of Captain Groeninger's ship and men. _"

Jack scowled. They'd managed to get his name right, at least, but still... " _Captain _ Jack Sparrow," he muttered vehemently. Then he had to restrain his humor at the sight of Pickham, who seemed just about ready to start chewing on his own liver. The rest of the tavern was silent, with all eyes turned to the place where Thadius Gorsse sat. Jack could almost envision the disdainful curl that must currently be gracing the former Rector's lips as he read.

" _Fearing for the lives of his men, _" Gorsse went on, beginning to warm to his subject -- or perhaps to the undivided attention of his audience. " _And for the safety of Mr. Heinrich Van der Oort, representative of the East India Company, owner of the _Flower of Neucander, _ and who was presently aboard with his wife and daughter, Captain Groeninger pleaded for clemency. _"

Hoots and derisive catcalls followed this, and Jack snorted as well. His own memory told a different story of the Dutch captain. That one had been ready to draw the whole affair out into what could have become a bloody disaster. It had been Van der Oort himself that had called for the men of the _ Flower of Neucander _to stand down. The crew, only too happy to believe themselves in a situation that they might just live to talk about, had sided with the stout merchant against the outraged screams of their captain.

Groeninger had finally relented, but only grudgingly, and only when threatened with the loss of his current employment.

" _This pirate, Sparrow, a wild, mad devil of a man, did most scornfully mock Capt. Groeninger, saying: "If you've got so much of the fire in you that you don't know when you're done, I shall happily run you around the masts until you've figured it out, my good man.' Then, holding the passengers and crew in fear for their very lives, Jack Sparrow and his band of cutthroats made away with the Flower of Neucander's cargo, taking for themselves a shipment of fine silks, gems of many cuts and colors, and a great amount of spices._

_"Not content with their ill-gotten gains, it was then that one of Sparrow's foul miscreants: a most contemptuous Negro boy, made to lay his rude hands on the person of Van der Oort's daughter with every intent of compromising her virtue. He was persuaded to leave off, but only after being allowed to rob the young lady of her modest jewelry. _"

This time Jack could barely contain himself. Van der Oort's daughter was a round faced girl, as he recalled, with pale blue eyes and a pert swing to her hips. She'd looked to be about that age: the age when parents of girl children the world over begin to seriously hunt down someone to marry their little darlings off to, and curtail the risks of facing any... embarrassing situations. Van der Oort's little darling showed every sign of being the kind of girl that gave fathers nightmares.

She'd also been sizing Jack up almost from the moment his feet had touched the Dutchman's deck. He remembered her with perfect clarity, because she'd also been wearing what he'd thought to be a thoroughly inappropriate -- yet infinitely fascinating -- overly grand necklace comprised of diamonds, great ropes of pearls, and large, flashing sapphires. The necklace had caught his eye well enough all on its own.

Young missy Van der Oort had held his attention when she'd given him a sultry, come-hither kind of smile, reached up and undid the clasp of her most fascinating necklace, and allowed the sparkling ornament to drop down into the bodice of her dress. Tucking the ends into her bosom with a saucy wink, she'd stood there, breathing deeply, and waited. The look in her eyes plainly said: _come here and fetch it, my good man._

He'd thought about it. He'd even been tempted, but in the end, he'd simply not found it worth the trouble it could cause. Not when Papa Van der Oort had so obligingly order the men of the_ Flower of Neucander_ to surrender, while his terrified wife fainted into the arms of her attendant each time Jack so much as glanced in her direction. The ship's owner had gambled that the promise to cause no harm should the Dutch vessel surrender would be upheld, and Jack didn't feel it right to repay this by ravishing the man's daughter before his very eyes. Or being ravished by her, for that matter.

So he'd sent AnaMaria to fetch the necklace instead.

AnaMaria -- who had witnessed all of the girl's not-so-subtle mischief, and was not above causing mischief of her own. She'd approached the young missy with a broad, manly swagger, and fast as a striking snake, had the ornate necklace dangling from her fingertips almost before Miss Van der Oort realized that her 'virtue' had been 'compromised'. Then, before the outraged father could attempt anything foolish, AnaMaria had favored the family with a dazzling smile, doffing her hat to shake her long hair loose around her shoulders.

"Thanks ever so much for this grand gift, miss," she'd said in as blatant a feminine display as any Jack had ever seen from her. Holding the glittering fancy up to her dusky skin, she went on breathlessly, "Doesn't this color just bring out my eyes?"

Van der Oort's daughter looked ready to claw those eyes out with her bare hands, but Van der Oort himself had an odd little smile on his lips that told Jack that not all of his girl's antics had gone unnoticed.

_"Then,"_ Gorsse's narration picked up again, shaking Jack from his memories. "_The dreaded pirates heaped cruel insults upon the heads of the helpless crew of the_ Flower of Neucander,"

They'd disabled the rudder chain, and told them that it shouldn't take a competent man more than a few hours to fix.

_"Having stolen everything of value, including much needed provisions,"_

Jack had discovered the Dutch captain's private store of brandy, and confiscated it right along with the fellow's favorite dainties from the galley.

_"And with continued threats and promises of renewed mayhem, did Jack Sparrow and his vile followers retreat to their unnamed ship, and swiftly fled before the valiant Captain Groeninger could order his men to the guns."_

'Steer clear of the Passage,' is what Jack had advised. 'If anyone's laying in wait, they may just scuttle you for spite if they don't find what they're looking for.' Then he'd returned to the _Pearl_ -- now no longer resembling a ship in distress -- and cast off all lines, leaving the merchant ship to its own devices.

The rest of the tract, duly read by Gorsse, turned out to be less in regard to Jack, and more about the seeming lack of concern on the part of the British Navy patrolling the region. The Dutch writer blasted them in scathing terms for their shameful disinterest in aiding the affronted Captain Groeninger to restore his tarnished honor. Whomever had caused this account to be written and published was obviously a personal friend of the hot headed Dutchman. The author continued on in a rambling, pointless diatribe, demanding to know why, with all the taxes a merchant ship was required to pay the crown, did the Dutch Navy not allocate more ships to the defense of the trade routes.

Jack listened with only half an ear, his mind hard at work on how best to coerce Gorsse into aiding Miranda -- and by extension, himself. Watching the defrocked priest's pale hand scramble to catch up the coins grudgingly thrown to him by a thoroughly deflated Pickham, he came to the conclusion that out and out bribery was by far the best course.

And then? Why, if 'Reverend Thadius' could be so helpful as to provide some helpful translations as to what it was that made Miranda's ring so irresistible to the people that hazarded her, and maybe a general idea -- beyond "due east", of course -- of where they should be looking for this "golden walled sun temple" the lady had so tantalizingly mentioned, he'd give the order to set sail soon after. What better way to ruin the schemes of Dunnthorpe and his strange partner than to beat them to whatever it was they were looking for, and carry it out from under them. If Dunnthorpe thought himself and his ship a match for Jack and the _Pearl_, then Jack was quite willing to disabuse him of that notion almost immediately.

And if this temple _did_ turn out to be a treasure cave..? The thought gave him a warm, glowy kind of feeling inside. A feeling he held close to his heart as he turned from the _Fiddle 'n Fife_, intent on the path back to his ship.

A feeling that vanished all at once when he found himself thrown against the tavern wall. A body pressed full length against him, while a hot mouth clamped over his own with a force that caused the back of his head to impact abruptly with the wall behind him, and a wiry pair of arms wound tight around his neck. All he could glimpse was a blurred impression of red hair, and for a moment-- just for a moment, thought...

But no. _She _would never throw herself at him like this. Her arms wouldn't feel like grasping, coiling snakes wrapping around his neck, nor would her mouth taste like sour ale and cabbage, battering at his lips in something more like an assault than a kiss. He gripped his assailant by her shoulders, pushing her away as their lips separated with an audible 'pop'.

"Hullo, Scarlett," Jack managed when he could breathe again.

o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-

**A/N:** Another chapter in the can... and I'm still kicking. Real Life is still waaaayyy too real, but at least this chapter's here. And the next one's actually... cooperating, if you can imagine. Maybe the writer's block is lifting a bit. Hope it stays that way. And now for the thank-yous...

GeekMama -- You're evil! EVIL! That review had me blowing soda through my nose. Ouch! I can still feel the carbonation. "Necessary lubricant", indeed! EVIL! EEEEK! And now you've finished Harry and the Pirate 4! I'm sooo far behind... (cries pitiously!) Gotta catch up with you, woman! How do you do it?

Murdererer: Well... Don't know how many more pruny sailors we're gonna end up with. Don't put away those SASOBTTPU plaques just yet.

Hi, Celebnen! Still only partially sane -- but then, you all knew that, right? Glad you made it here!

Shadow: WHEEEE! Welcome to the party! Yep, I still plan to continue to post on the other board, so no fear there. But I hope you'll keep checking in here, too!

Ok, so now I'll just have to ask it: what's tickled everyone more, the dried peas, or Bartolo the rat? LOL!

Eledwen, RunawayPirate, Spirit of the Sky: Thanks so much! Glad you're enjoying the cruise!

Hi Hendercats and ErinRua! LOL! Yeah, Edward's a real piece of work, eh? Well.. he's a real piece of SOMETHING, at any rate. And our villians are only getting warmed up... but enough about those jerks! Oh, I'm so glad you're both still with me. Even with my extended absensces. (sigh...) And I hope Real Life is being a little kinder towards you too, Erin!

The tension between our good Captain and the Lady Miranda seems to be getting to a lot of people... (grin!) I'm so grateful that you've all accepted this quirky dance between these two. Rather surprised, actually. Wow!

Rachel and Iluvcaptainjack: Thank you sooo much!

Anaknusan and Yama-Neko: Well... here's some more! LOL! Hopefully the wait for the next won't be too bad. At least I'm not quite rivaling JK Rowling in intervals. (Yikes!)

Kaellana and Crystalvoicedcamelotlady: Squeeeee! New readers! Wow! You've both got some staying power to have gotten through this monster so quickly! Thank you, thank you, thank you.

I hope to keep everyone entertained through the rest of the saga... however long that takes. I'm still shooting for epilogues before the release of "Dead Man's Chest". Now, if these characters would just cooperate, and let me GET there... (ack!) Thank you again, and I'll see you soon!


	34. Chapter 30

Welcome to another instalment of: The Story that Ate My Life! (cue dramatic music) Once again, everything that you recognise no doubt belongs to that blasted mouse. Now, if that takes care of the disclaimer nonsense, we'll just cut to the chase. Please review!

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Chapter 30

Some time later, Jack Sparrow limped down to the docks, seeking out his jolly boat amidst the rows of other small craft, and nursing the throb of what was sure to be a sorely bruised shin. Scarlett had been most... persuasive in her efforts to keep him for the night. He'd managed to beg off, but only by claiming the need to be on his way, as he was smack-dab right in the middle of a very important business opportunity, and yes, perhaps next time he'd be around longer, but wasn't she just the darlin' for asking.

Scarlett had frowned. She'd pouted, and simpered, and even managed (with some obvious effort on her part) to keep her expression controlled as he'd explained all of this while using as many exaggerated, 'H' laden words as he could come up with to blow his onion seasoned breath into her face. He had to admire her tenacity, though, and pressed a few coins into her hand before sending her on her way with a familiar pat to the rump. Scarlett had glanced coyly over her shoulder, batting her sooty lashes as she'd swished into the _Fiddle 'n Fife_.

But Jack had not made it more than a few paces before another body stepped squarely into his path. Hands balled on her hips, Giselle smirked up at him with hard eyes and upraised brows.

"Giselle, luv," he'd said casually, and felt his smile falter as the blonde harlot's rouged lips tightened into a thin line.

He could see it coming. He told himself to be ready for it, and tensed, prepared to duck out of reach of her swinging arm.

He was not prepared, however, for the sudden pain that shot through his left leg, and all he could do was hop in place in the middle of the street like a bloody idiot, hands wrapped around his smarting shin, while Giselle stalked away in her hard little shoes, with her head held high.

Women, Jack thought acidly, now rowing steadily past the ships anchored offshore. What was it with these unruly creatures? Spend a little time and a bit of money on them, and next thing you know, they think they've some sort of claim on a man. Always trying to needlessly complicate a simple transaction. He'd enjoyed their company, and they'd most certainly enjoyed the coins and occasional baubles that he'd showered them with. Something for everyone, really. Couldn't they just be content with that, and not try to muddy the waters? Why, you'd never find _him_ behaving in such a way!

_Ah_, said a smug little voice in his head,_ But does the same hold true when one of the unruly creature also happens to be the lovely Countess, mate?_

Jack scowled, pushing the thought away. It wasn't one he wanted to confront. Not when it brought up other distracting thoughts of soft hands and a soothing voice, and foolish notions he'd believed himself well beyond thinking.

And... and -- a Countess, of all things? Jack shook his head ruefully. "Why not catch the moon in a fishing net." he muttered aloud. "Easier that, than to think you can hold on to the likes of her."

Hold on to... where in bloody hell had that come from? This was getting out of hand! "What's next, Jack? Going to get down on one knee and beg her to make an honest man of you? Hah!"

The image was ludicrous enough to bring him sharply back to reality. Better to train his thoughts instead on what may lay ahead for himself and his crew for the next leg of this madcap quest. Jack wasn't fool enough to believe that he and the _Pearl_ could evade Dunnthorpe and his troublesome partner forever. Eventually, they would be forced to confront each other. When that happened, Jack wanted to make damned certain that he was the one in possession of this 'hand of the god' -- whatever it may be. If Dunnthorpe's not-so-sleepy partner was capable of causing such havoc without the mysterious object, what might he do with it?

Jack really didn't want to dwell too long on that question: It didn't make for a very encouraging picture. So once again he found his mind drifting towards the ever-so-much-more attractive idea of the 'golden-walled sun temple'. The hints of an elusive treasure were tailor made to intrigue a man such as himself: a vast concentration of wealth just sitting there, ripe for the plucking. All a body had to do was reach out his hand and scoop it up.

Funny thing about treasure like that, though... it inevitably came with some rather unexpected ( and alarmingly inconvenient ) strings attached. Jack counted himself lucky the last time he'd pursued something like this. That is, if one could consider losing what one held most dear -- the _only_ thing one held dear -- as luck.

But he had been lucky. He'd survived where so many hadn't, and he'd learned valuable, hard won lessons. And in that learning, he'd made himself into the man he was today: Older? Oh, yes, most definitely that. His body reminded him of this upon every awakening. Wiser? He'd like to think so. Certainly, he'd grown more cautious... more selective in whom he placed his trust these days. And if people thought him no more than a sun-addled, drunken fool, so much the better. Let them see what they want to see. It was a more effective ploy by half than even the most elegantly orchestrated schemes.

To be underestimated was, in truth, to have the upper hand, and claim the luxury to bide one's time until the opportune moment was presented.

Or, barring all else, to create that opportune moment himself.

He glanced about to get his bearings. All throughout the darkened harbor, lantern hung ships rested at anchor. At the rail of the sloop nearest him, faces gazed down sullenly: the faces of men forced to stay shipboard, keeping watch while their comrades caroused ashore. Jack checked off his stern quarter, and couldn't help but to stare, hands stilling on the oars.

Even in the darkness, he knew her. Would know her even without the moonlight silhouetting her graceful lines. Jack reckoned he would still know her, if all he had to go by was the sound of the waves washing against her hull, and though she'd been his again for all this time, he never ceased to feel that same thrill. Felt his mouth bend into that same foolish smile as he drank in the sight of her, and knew all over again what that ancient mariner, Ulysses, must have felt at the first sight of the shores of Ithaca.

The _Black Pearl_. His_ Pearl_.

Home.

He rowed on, heart and arms lighter now, and thoughts of jealous, vengeful strumpets all but gone. As he drew steadily nearer, Jack heard the voice of one of his men quietly call out, "Boat approachin', Joshamee". Bodies quickly lined the rail, and Jack easily picked out the shadowed outline of his Quartermaster. Beside him, a second figure leaned out to look, tension evident in the set of her small shoulders.

"Is it he?" Miranda's low voice wondered tensely.

"Aye, miss. That it is," Joshamee answered. Then, "Were ye plannin' on announcin' yerself, Jack, or were you tryin' yer hand at sneakin' up on us again?"

Jack shook his head. "Just keeping you on your toes, mate," he called. Gibbs snorted derisively, a sound that plainly said: 'As if you'd catch us otherwise', and called for the men to haul in Jack's little jolly boat. As usual, Jack scrambled up one of the lines, and dropped lightly onto the deck.

"Captain." Miranda was there to greet him, hands folded primly at her waist, and her face unreadable.

"Milady," he returned, matching her calm tones. "Alright here?" The corners of her lips lifted a bit.

"Tolerably, Captain. And I trust your time ashore was..." She paused, distracted by the distant sound of pistol reports, and looked past him to the brightly lit town. "Uneventful?" she concluded, managing to sound only a little strained.

Had she truly been so very worried? About him? Jack couldn't help the smile that stole across his face. "Not as bad as all that, really. Nobody's actually looking to hit anything. Not that they could, mind you. By now everybody's too far gone for steady aim."

She didn't look reassured for some reason, and continued to steal glances towards the noisy settlement. Her reluctance to visit the island couldn't have been plainer if she'd shouted it. Miranda would do it, though. Even when frightened half senseless, she'd do what was necessary. Havana had proved that well enough to Jack's way of thinking, as had their encounter with Henri deGaronne.

"Ran into an acquaintance of mine," he offered. "A privateer headed out for Port Royal come the morning tide. He'll be carrying your letter." The he beaded his eyes at the noblewoman. "I thought we'd agreed to 'vague' and 'nondescript'."

"And?" Miranda said blandly. She didn't seem surprised that he'd read her message himself.

"'And'?" Jack barked, rocking back on his heels. "'_And_'? Woman, that had to be the most appalling display of vapid giddiness I've ever had the misfortune of setting eye to: 'Can't begin to describe how delightful it was to have had the chance to visit with you and your _charming_ spouse'," he said in a mincing sort of voice, drawing out that one little word. "What a lovely, _charming_ home you two have made, and you simply must let my cook have the recipe for that _charming_ dish you served at luncheon'... How many times could you possibly have used the word '_charming_' in one simple letter? You even went on about her '_charming_' dress, for God's sake!"

Miranda only looked back with calm amusement.

"And I won't even go in to how you went on and on about your '_charming_ accommodations'. You've managed to make your time here sound for all the world like some sort of holiday cruise..."

"As opposed to fleeing for my life aboard the most notorious pirate vessel in the region?" she returned archly. "Do give me some credit for intelligence, Captain Sparrow. Were you not the one to remind that unfriendly eyes might see my letter first? I simply thought it best to disguise the true purpose of my writing. Make it so that anybody else who might read it would think it just the... how did you put it? -- the 'vapid giddiness' of a silly woman out on voyage. I may have gotten a bit carried away," she admitted finally.

"A bit," Jack agreed, grimacing. "But I think it'll do the trick. Well played, Lady," he conceded. "I doubt anyone who didn't know you could make heads or tails out of that. Just caught me off guard is all." Then he grinned at her. "But this 'Captain Jonathan Finch' fellow -- and I'll have to remember that one, by the way -- I think I should feel rather unfriendly towards this cad, what with the way her Ladyship kept going on about him. How 'kindly' and '_charming_' -- there's that word again, by the way -- a gentleman can one person be? Think if I were him, I'd pitch myself right over the side for being such an insufferable bore."

Judging by the sudden flash in her eyes, Jack knew he was on dangerous footing. Though he couldn't for the life of him guess as to why.

"No fear of that, I'm sure," Miranda said frostily. "I don't believe there's any way the two could ever be confused. And you may wish to wipe your mouth."

That set him aback. He stared blankly at her until Miranda tapped at her own lips impatiently. "Is this some sort of obscure pirate enclave custom that I should be aware of, or is the Captain unaware that he is presently wearing lip rouge?"

_Lip rouge..?_

_Scarlett!_

"Oh... oh, well... yes..." Fishing through his pockets, he drew out a handkerchief, and rubbed it vigorously over his lips. Jack frowned at the dark smudge now visible on the pale linen. "It was an ambush, you see," he told her lamely. "Never saw it coming. Had to fight tooth and claw to escape with my life, you might say." He paused, wondering why he felt the need to explain himself. Was it his fault that Scarlett had launched herself at him like a cuttlefish after its favorite prey?

"Not to suppose that her Ladyship would appreciate the sacrifices a man'll make in her service," Jack muttered, and saw her eyes flash again. He ignored this and leaned closer. "But you might feel better to know that this venture was a success: Gorsse is here."

Miranda straightened attentively. He nodded. "Keeps himself with doing odd jobs for anyone who needs a man of letters. But there's not much use for that in this place, so our priestly friend isn't exactly enjoying the kind of soft living he's accustomed to. Savvy? If you're able to dangle a fair amount of gold in his face, there's no doubt the old boy'll be ripe for the plucking. And from what I hear, Gorsse still thinks himself the ladies' man. Unleash a few of those smiles of yours at him along with all those pretty coins, and he'll be following at your heels like a love-struck puppy. You might even be able to order him to roll over and fetch."

He added the last with a laugh, but his smile quickly faded as he watched a look of pain cross the Lady's face. Miranda suppressed it soon after, but Jack noted with some alarm that tears had sprung up in her eyes.

"Miranda?" He stepped closer, dropping his voice to a whisper. "What is it, luv? What's happened?"

Miranda retreated a step, face turned resolutely away. Just as resolutely, Jack followed, placing himself squarely before her. "C'mon, girl, what is it? What's wrong?"

"Nothing," she squeaked in a weak little voice, still refusing to even look at him. "Nothing. Only... could you please... could you turn your head in another direction?"

"Pardon?" Jack wondered what game she was playing at now. She winced, retreating another step, then raised her head with embarrassment.

"Please," Miranda whispered in turn. "Jack... oh, Captain... could you please not breathe on me just now?"

"What's that supposed to... oh." He stepped back, comprehension dawning in an onion shaped cloud of memory. "Oh... sorry. Forgot about that." Holding the rouge smeared handkerchief over his mouth, he cautiously tested his own breath... and it almost gagged him. By damn, that was awful -- even for himself! And now that he had occasion to think on it, there was a taste in his mouth that strongly suggested that some foul creature had crawled in there and died. He scrubbed at his tongue with the handkerchief, then gave up entirely, wadding the cloth into a ball and sending it fluttering over the side.

"Usually works to keep... ah... undesirables at a distance."

Really?" Miranda intoned slowly. "Your ambusher must have been quite determined, then. Or suffering a severe head cold, perhaps?"

"Something like that," he muttered. The little minx, he realized, was thoroughly enjoying his discomfort. "I'll just... why don't I go take care of this, eh?"

"Do so," she agreed, pointing an imperious finger in the direction of his cabin. "Now. _Please._"

o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-

**A/N: **Alright, so this was kind of a short chapter. At least, it's short for me. Doesn't really further the plot more (sorry!), but had a couple of sequences in it that just would NOT leave me alone -- like what I like to call "The Great Onion Incedent", for one. So here it is. I've entered into a part of this story that's almost a holding pattern. The calm before the storm, as it were. It's also resisting my urge to put it down in a cohesive form like nobody's business. Doesn't help that "Real Life" is still clubbing me upside the head. Like Jack, I'm realizing that I'm only flesh and blood. LOL! So thank you all for your patience.

Anaknusan and Crystalvoicedcamelotlady: LOL! Glad you liked the account of "Pyracy Moste Foul". Served two purposes for me: introducing Gorsse, and playing around with what amounted to the newspapers of the day. It was fun.

Istani: Here you go -- and now you're caught up again! LOL!

Eledhwen and Kaellana: Sophia sort of up and surprised me. I only really 'saw' her right when I started on that chapter, so I really can't explain it. I guess since Gibbs was sort of the 'man who knows the man who knows... etc.', I sort of wanted another person for Jack to use as a friendly contact on Tortuga. This no-nonsence lady jumped up and waved her arms. Glad you liked her! Jack seems to get along well with strong women -- of ALL ages. (grins) And AnaMaria swiping the necklace... that was just too much fun.

Voice.Hear.Me.: Thank you very much! (blush!) I'm so glad you're enjoying this. Was this update soon enough? LOL!

I'd like to thank again everyone who read and reviewed. It's a funny thing... now that everyone has hit counters for their stories on this site, I've watched the hits just seem to go through the roof in the past few weeks. It's just depressing now to realize the hits to reviews ratio! LOL! Very, very scary.

Well, I'm hoping it won't be much longer for the next chapter to appear here. It's twitchy, but at least it's forming. That's something, eh?

Please let me know what you think!


	35. Chapter 31

I'm back! Well, I think I'm here, at any rate. The jury's still out.

As always, anything here that you do recognise does not belong to me. I just... commandeer them for a while.

Without further ado, I present the very much un-beta'ed, very long awaited, and just plain LONG:

**Chapter 31 **

The air was cool this evening, and the skies remarkably free of clouds. Miranda couldn't remember the last time she'd noticed so many stars. It was the kind of night usually rhapsodized by poets and lovers alike.

How unfortunate, she thought regretfully, that she was neither of these.

But the night was not a quiet one -- not by any means. Not when every minute (or so it seemed) was punctuated by barrages of pistol fire carrying out over the water. Underlining this was the faint noise of what she certainly might have taken for a full blown riot, had those around her not been quick to assure her that it was nothing more than seamen "kickin' up their heels". Somehow this knowledge brought no comfort, though AnaMaria did encourage, "It's not like we'll be leaving you on your own there."

Miranda felt somewhat better at this, but frowned when the girl added, "N' besides, most of the rowdiest will still be sleeping it off by the time we go ashore."

"Most of..?"

AnaMaria had given her a tolerant look, and patted her on the arm. "It'll be fine," she said, and far too blithely for Miranda's liking. Unsurprisingly, an oft-quoted maxim of her mother's repeated in her mind: What cannot be avoided must be endured. Somehow, she thought ironically, marching into a stronghold of cutthroats was not what that dear woman had in mind.  
It had occurred to Miranda, in the late afternoon when the ship had made anchorage in the natural harbor of the island, that it might be better all around if this Gorsse fellow could be convinced to come to the Black Pearl himself. Would that not be easiest to all concerned?

"Sorry, darlin'," Sparrow had replied, climbing into his jolly boat. "If he's around at all, the last thing he'll be wanting is anything to do with me." With this heartening bit of information, the Captain had ordered his boat lowered to the water, and rowed alone to shore.

The coming of night had brought the first distant gunshots and Miranda had spent the next two hours silently working herself into a dreadful state: What if Gorsse was not there, or if he was, what if the former priest hated Jack more than he'd let on? What if one of those shots had been aimed at Jack, and by Gorsse himself? What if Jack did not return -- had been injured, or killed, or taken by another band of men like those horrible people at Havana? A million other awful possibilities seemed to march cheerily through her brain, until she could manage no more than a mouthful at dinner, and could not keep still in her seat, but returned to pace the topmost deck, and to wait.

What a ninny she had been. Sparrow had returned none the worse for wear, and with the unmistakable trace of some woman's cosmetic smeared across his lips. Miranda's fingers tightened around the still steaming mug of coffee Mr. Hischler had pressed into her hands. She sipped without even tasting the strong brew that she'd developed such a fondness for, but recognized instead a bewildering stab of jealousy.

Jealousy -- for what? For some nameless, faceless individual who obviously enjoyed a familiar acquaintance with the Captain? Or was it more the idea that Jack Sparrow might just prefer the company of his 'ambusher' to herself? All at once, the flawless face of Zerlina flashed before her inner eye. Did the owner of that lip rouge resemble the stunning Cuban woman? Was she the one responsible for delaying Sparrow's return? How dare she!

How dare _he_!

Miranda shook herself, seized with a wild disbelief: Was she, the daughter of Lord Evelyn and Lady Adelia Warringford; envious of whatever tawdry port harlot this pirate preferred to keep company with? Why, the very idea was... it was beyond absurd, it was preposterous!

Yet... there it was.

Suddenly, Miranda found herself actually looking forward to her inevitable landing upon the Isle of Tortuga. The sooner she met with this elusive Gorsse, the sooner she might solve the ridiculous puzzle that had brought Edward Dunnthorpe crashing back into her life, along with his mysterious, powerful ally, and rid herself once and for all of both. Then she could return to her home, put these past weeks behind her, and forget.

_And Jack?_ the thought rose up unbidden. _Will you forget... will you put _him_ behind you as well?_

Jack... What could she do to convince herself that she could forget him? What lengths would she go to, and what tasks would she bury herself in to pretend that, from the very day he'd stumbled over her threshold, Miranda had _not_ felt more alive than she'd ever felt since the days before her marriage? Days when the world seemed a banquet of excitement and promise. Days that, despite moments of near paralyzing terror, and dangers she'd never dreamt of confronting, were nevertheless days very much like these.

"Miranda!"

Miranda started, drops of coffee spilling from her mug. She turned, finding AnaMaria seated amidst several of the men all gathered around the Black Pearl's smoking lamp -- the only place on a sailing vessel where those who indulged in tobacco were allowed to do so.

"Hey," the First Mate called again. "Stop brooding over there, and c'mon over!"

"Aye," said the cooper, Mr. Kursar. "Plenty of room here, ma'am." He aimed the stem of his pipe to an empty spot on a long bench. Miranda looked around. There was a faint, bluish haze around the smoking lamp, but many gathered there didn't appear to be indulging at all. The reason for this became clear when Miranda noted that here and there, crewmen had brought a motley collection of musical instruments to the circle.

Miranda smiled in spite of herself. Often during this journey she had heard merry tunes played. Always after the changing of the watch that followed dinner, when she was usually ensconced in her cabin. Then music would float down to her, and she'd found herself humming along. There had been many occasions when she'd been tempted to join their circle, but refrained, feeling that her presence as an outsider would be too much the intrusion.

It was becoming evident that the crew did not share in this sentiment. The faces that glanced up as she made her way to them were neither wary, nor forbidding, but open. Accepting, even. As though she had every right in the world to expect to sit among them as one of their own.

"Oho!" chortled Mr. Crimp, who was testing the tone of his bohdrain, tapping it expertly. "We've quality among us now, gents. Marty here 'll be havin' to go without his favorite tonight."

The Bo'sun scowled from his perch atop an overturned barrel. "Who says?" he demanded hotly.

"Aye," the pirate named Ladbroc chimed in, plucking the strings of a worn, but obviously well cared for fiddle. "Maybe she'd like hearin' '_I May Be a Wee Little Sailor-Man, But I've Got Ruddy Great Boom'."_

Miranda had no idea how to respond to this, but by the laughter of those nearest her, she knew her face must have given her away.

"She might not," AnaMaria grumbled. "But I've heard it enough to last me a good spell. Pick another one, Tom."

"It'll have to wait," Mr. Ladbroc replied, while the First Mate and Bo'sun exchanged rather inflammatory hand gestures. "Cotton 'n Mac ain't here yet."

"Yeah we are."

Miranda drew her skirts aside to let the two men pass. The Scotsman known as 'Mac' -- though she'd learned from Ani that his given name was Hamish -- settled in beside his musical comrades. The lamplight picked fiery reflections from the polished silver of his little flute. Mr. Cotton dropped into a space beside Mr. Ladbroc, and brought the fiddle's larger, deeper toned cousin to his shoulder. The viola's rich notes filled the air, joined quickly by the other instruments, and soon Miranda was tapping her foot in time with the lively song. It wasn't one she was familiar with, but she felt confidant enough to add her voice to the chorus the second time through, and joined in the enthusiastic applause at song's end.

Smiling, the musicians nodded, throwing themselves into another, then another. Finally, by some unspoken consent, they began a slower tune. Miranda knew this one: an Irish melody that had been quite in vogue when she'd been much younger. She sipped at her coffee, and remembered happier, more innocent days. Judging from the soft, distant looks on some of the weathered faces around her, the plaintive music was having a similar effect. Even upon those that played it. The brawny fellow known as 'Mac' played with a surprising delicacy in one so large and... well, _un-delicate_. And Mr. Cotton...

Miranda studied the mute carefully, scooting farther down the bench when another body came aside looking for a place within the circle. The older man seemed almost transported by the song that flew from beneath his gnarled fingers. His seamed face and tightened lips relaxed noticeably as he drew out note after note with heartbreaking tremolos that nearly brought tears to her eyes.

Who was this man, she wondered then. What had he been? What might he have been in the days before cruel hands had cut the tongue from his mouth, leaving him with only a bird to convey his thoughts? Miranda glanced up. Sure enough, the magnificently plumed parrot rested nearby. Head bowed, one foot raised to its body, the bird perched on the standing lines, attentive even in sleep.

The sweet, melancholy strain continued. Miranda saw Mr. Crimp openly mop at his eyes. No one saw fit to tease him on this display of sentiment, though. Too many of them were blinking rapidly themselves. Even Ani looked subdued. It wasn't difficult to understand why. This was an age-old melody that had been inspired by a sailor's longing for home. Whatever their many differences may be, every person here had someplace that called to them.

For herself, Miranda recalled the scent of the air after a rainstorm mingling with the smell of grass, apple blossoms, and roses. Of bread fresh from Cook's oven, and sheets from Widow Nesbitt's laundry. Of the wild, intoxicating memory of the land racing past as Reisen stretched himself out in a gallop beneath her. Even the earthier remembrances of currying his heavy black tail, while with typical equine timing and humor, the big horse turned and blew his oats into her face.

The ecstatic triumph of witnessing the smile of approval on Master Zheng's face when she'd at last comprehended a particularly difficult lesson.

The drowsy, womanly comfort of Hannah brushing her hair. One hundred strokes before plaiting it for bedtime, while she and Margret engaged their mistress in murmured gossip. Such small thing. Insignificant, really, but Miranda found that her own eyes stung horribly now. She brushed at her face, while from her side, a white cloth dangled into her peripheral vision.

She told herself that she might have known who would be so bold as to seat himself beside her, so close that his thigh brushed hers. Miranda accepted the handkerchief, daubing at her lashes, and wondering just how many pirates went through life with an unknown quantity of these dainty, lace trimmed luxuries tucked into their pockets.

"Thank you, Captain."

Sparrow nodded, then tipped his head back, dark eyes perfectly dry and fixed upon the furled sails. There was a look of contentment on his face, and with a flash of insight, Miranda knew the reason for his ease.

Everyone clustered here around the smoking lamp was lost in thoughts of where they had come from, or of someplace they wished to return to. Everybody -- except this strange, dark man who mastered this strange, dark vessel. Jack Sparrow was exactly where he wanted to be, with nothing binding him to anything beyond ship and sea.

Miranda had known others like this. One in particular stood out strongly to her now: Captain Aaron Dalford, commander of one of her father's ships. In this case, the _Phoebus_ -- a swift, sturdy merchant vessel with a crew more than capable of defending her.

The booming laugh, scratchy voice and blue eyes that twinkled out of a sun browned face had made their mark on a girl just nearing her twelfth year. As a child, Miranda had found him fascinating. Ever so much more intriguing than the stern, forbidding Captain Edwin Rennling, who had ordered the scourging of her object d'amour a few years previously. Rennling had an officiousness about him that bordered on the military.

Captain Dalford had a far more approachable demeanor. His manner was easier, and relaxed. A man who had no need to 'put on aires', as one of the giddy maids had termed it. His clothing was well worn, and had hints and bits of foreign exoticness here and there. He steadfastly thumbed his nose at popular conventions and fashions. Even to eschewing the use of a wig, and preferring to tame his own sun-bleached hair into a neat tail when he had called upon them. Papa had counted him a friend since his youth, and when Dalford had visited them while the family wintered in India that year, mama had been quite charmed. Miranda remembered sitting as if glued to her chair while this colorful man had regaled them with story after story of his adventures on the high seas. Of outsmarting pirates, dodging sea monsters, and weathering storms that would have "done in Noah himself, by da -- er... by Heaven, begging your pardon, ma'am".

Later, long after she should have been tucked away in bed, Miranda had huddled in her white nightshift outside the door of papa's study, breathing in the rich scent of pipe tobacco that seeped from beneath the door frame, and strained her ears to hear. Hoping for more tales of the fantastic as the two men spoke privately.

"Who would've believed it," Dalford's voice said. "You -- a respectable Count, married, and with three little goslings trailing after." Then, he'd laughed loudly and scoffed, "Married! I tell you, old friend, women are like the land: you visit only when your... er... needs arise. And get away as soon as possible. You used to know better."

"I know," papa said. "But that was before. When I met Adelia... it was like that time you tapped me with that belaying pin, and I --"

"Saw stars for hours," Dalford finished with him, and they both laughed. Then, papa sighed.

"And ever since then... It's been sixteen years, Arron. I look at her still, and... stars.

"As to respectable," he went on. "Well, when my brother died, I was next in line for the title -- an all the inherent responsibilities." Miranda imagined that her father had spread out his hands then. "It was time to grow up, Aaron. I've not regretted once, and I doubt I ever shall."

They were silent for a while. Little Miranda had shifted restlessly, still hoping for more stories of amazing feats.

"Suppose I might've thought the same," Captain Dalford said, his voice softer now. "If God hadn't seen fit to take Meg and the little one. But the sea's my only love now, old friend. She's an understanding wife. Shares me with those pretty ships of yours, and doesn't complain. Always faithful, she is. Whatever else, they can't take her away from me, now can they?"

"To the sea," papa said quietly, which Dalford echoed reverently. Miranda heard the sound of glasses clinking together, and the subsequent silence was broken by dreary discussions of cargos and shipping schedules, and she'd dragged herself off to bed with a sense of having been cheated out of an adventure that didn't have to be shared with her two slumbering, boringly obedient siblings.

Well, she was certainly having her adventure now, wasn't she? And with a man remarkably akin to her father's irrepressible friend. One who saw ship and sea as hearth and home, mistress and wife. It was a fierce kind of love. An all-encompassing love that left room for little else. But more even than this, there were certain men for whom the sea was almost a deity, and their love was a kind of worship. Captain Dalford had been such a man.

Another such man sat beside her now. What could the land possibly offer for men such as these?

For that matter -- what could a mere woman?

The sound of applause shook her from her musings. She hastened to join in as Mr. Cotton smiled his closed mouth smile, and all around them the men called out for their favorites. Miranda turned, offering the handkerchief to its owner. She found the Captain meticulously pressing pinches of tobacco into the bowl of a long stemmed pipe.

"Hang on to it," he said with a shrug and a glance to her hand. "Got plenty more where that came from." Tamping the shredded leaf into whatever arcane configuration that men preferred for this pastime, he held a lit length of straw over the bowl of his pipe. Then he paused with lifted brows, giving her a sidelong look.

Miranda shook her head. "My father indulged, Captain. For my part, I've no objection to the smell of a good pipe." The brows climbed higher.

"You're a rare bird," he observed wryly. "Lets a man have his comforts, even shares in a cup or two... you sure you never dreamed of being a pirate when you were a wee lass?"

She -- a pirate? "I'm afraid not, Captain," she laughed. "Though I do recall wishing to shoot a bow and begging my parents for an outing to Sherwood Forest so that I could join Robin Hood's band of merry men." Sparrow had to lean in to hear her over the musicians.

"And when papa declined, I took to calling a little copse of trees on our grounds 'Sherwood', and climbing out onto the branches to lay in wait for the villainous Sheriff of Nottingham. As I also recall, that earned me some rather stern lectures about not waylaying innocent groundsmen, or frightening papa's visiting investors." Miranda frowned at those memories, but the Captain almost choked on the stem of his pipe.

"No wonder you weren't afraid of chasing me up the mast all those years ago," he chortled. "Sounds like you'd already had plenty of practice. But you do understand," he went on, bringing himself very close. "That Robin of Locksley fellow wasn't much more than a landbound pirate. Exchange those branches and trees for spars and sailcloth, and you'll not find much difference, eh?"

Miranda shivered, feeling his breath on her ear. What with that horrid stench that had emanated from his mouth earlier now banished, praise Heaven, the sensation was far from unpleasant.

In fact... it was about as far removed from unpleasant as one could conceivable get. She was in very great danger just now: the man was charming her again, and without even truly making an effort to do so. Miranda swallowed some now tepid coffee, marshaling her thoughts to form a rebuttal to his words.

In the end, she simply couldn't find any. All childhood romanticisms aside, an interesting point had been raised: Pirate, or privateer; it all hinged upon who's flag one sailed under. While England had cheered on the exploits of Francis Drake and the crew of the _Golden Hind_ -- which had included her many times great grandfather -- Spain -- and her many times great grandmother -- had cursed them to eternities of perpetual torment. She met Jack's eyes, noting a flash of surprise there when she finally admitted, "No, I suppose you're right. There's not much difference after all, is there?"

Why, oh why did his look have to soften just then? Clearly he had expected an argument just on the principal of the thing, but... but did he have to look at her like that? Did the perpetual guardedness in his dark eyes have to lessen at her words? Did the smirk that habitually graced the all too alluring line of his lips have to relax into something so genuine?

_Look away, Miranda_, she warned herself. _Look away_.

But she could not. And worse, felt herself returning his smile with one she feared was most fatuous. "I should... perhaps I should retire for the evening," she stammered, making to rise. All the while, a little voice in her mind mocked her for her cowardice. "Tomorrow will be..."

His fingers encircled her wrist, staying her. "Tomorrow'll be here soon enough," Jack pronounced, blowing out a plume of smoke. "Tonight's for spending with friends, Miranda."

Miranda stared, suspecting him of sporting with her. He only gazed steadily back, puffing calmly on his pipe. Then the musicians began a new tune, and he immediately perked up.

"Ah! Well, you can't leave now, luv. Not till you've heard this one at least."

It was an energetic little melody, she thought, settling back. And while some rolled their eyes and grinned tolerantly, they still clapped and stomped their feet in time. Others, like the Captain, sang exuberantly to a song whose words she might have found quite disturbing were they not followed by ones so whimsical that it was impossible to take the whole thing seriously. A song extolling a life of piracy, but written as though for an audience of children. And when Jack raised his voice to give emphasis to a verse where the lyrical pirates described themselves as, "_really bad eggs"_, Miranda didn't bother to hide her amusement.

Mr. Quartetto sprang to his feet and began to dance a mad little jig. Other joined him, capering arm in arm whilst bellowing the refrain at the top of their lungs. Sparrow rose from his place beside her, knocking the embers of his pipe into a pail of sea water.

The air was chill, but Miranda no longer felt it. Instead, a warmth suffused her, as though she's downed a tot of spirits as she watched Jack Sparrow move among his men. Swaying, dipping and turning, he danced with a carefree joy that was positively infectious. Only the vestiges of what was left of her propriety kept her in her place, and from joining him.

That... and the excuse to enjoy from her vantage point this most stirring display of grace that was unashamedly masculine, and unlike anything she'd ever beheld in her life.

Mr. Cotton and his fellows segued smoothly into another lively tune, and Jack's step never faltered as he threw himself headlong into it, while the dark ropes of his hair swung and fanned out behind him. He glittering with gold, and silver, and flashes of light from colored glass. Glittering with gold and silver within the flashing white of his smile. Everything about him radiated with the jubilance of a man perfectly assured and at ease with his place in this life, and Miranda was mesmerized all over again.

"Disgusting, innit?" AnaMaria's voice came to her then, breaking the spell of her captivation. The First Mate's eyes were on the scene before them as she plopped herself onto the bench. A not quite cynical smile bent the girl's lips. "The way he shows off like that? And him not even trying, really. Just Jack bein' Jack."

Then, AnaMaria turned to look at her, and after a moment, something suspiciously akin to triumph flashed across her face. "Mm-hmm." she purred knowingly, her eyes now sweeping over Miranda, who was painfully aware of the picture she presented: The color staining her cheeks. The rapidness of her breathing, though she'd not moved from this bench. The hand that was clenched in the folds of her skirt. AnaMaria took all of this in, then leaned in confidentially, angling her head towards her Captain.

"You know, if we could catch that in a bottle, we'd be richer than all the Crowns put together."

Miranda nodded dumbly, but was inwardly quite happy to let whatever it was that her friend wanted to bottle to remain exactly where it was. At least, right at this moment when she was safely watching from a relative distance.

AnaMaria was watching again too, her body swaying from side to side. One foot beat the deck in tempo. Suddenly, she whirled to Miranda, and there was a dreadful calculation in her large eyes as she leapt upright, catching Miranda's hand.

"C'mon!" she cried, tugging Miranda to her feet. "C'mon -- let's give _him_ somethin' to think about for a change!"

"Ani!" Miranda protested, but in the end she only had time to set aside her forgotten coffee before AnaMaria dragged her into the very midst of the men, seized both her hands, and began to spin her in dizzying circles. To her utter mortification Miranda heard appreciative whoops and whistles from the crewmen, along with startled exclamations from those who met abruptly with the flying hem of her skirts. A space cleared around them, and all she knew was that she was dancing with another woman before a crowd of watching pirates... watching _men_! This was the very height of shameless! This was... this was...

"Ani..." she tried again as AnaMaria stopped their mad whirling, only to spin them both in the opposite direction.

"We're in a safe harbor, Miranda," AnaMaria laughed, now steering her expertly through steps only half remembered. "Have some fun for a change!"

"But..."

But AnaMaria would hear none of it, and soon enough Miranda was caught up in the exuberance of dancing for the first time in years. The men of the _Black Pearl _clapped in time, almost drowning out the beat of Mr. Crimp' bohdrain. As she spun, curtseyed and stepped, Miranda laughed openly, feeling lighter than she'd felt in a terribly long time.

"Hey Ana!" Mr. Ladbroc called out, sawing merrily on his fiddle. "How come you'll dance with her, 'n never with me?"

"'Cause she doesn't have barges at the end of her legs like you, Tom." AnaMaria clapped, turned in place, then linked arms with her once more. "And I like my feet in one piece." Good natured ribbing followed this while the girl lead Miranda through increasingly intricate steps, and Miranda was glad that she hadn't refused. Ani looked happier than she'd ever seen her.

All too soon, it seemed, the music ended. The cheer that rose up was nearly deafening, and it wasn't long before the musicians, after a few hasty gulps from their mugs and tankards, were ready for more. Mac blew a shimmering arpeggio on his flute, and the others quickly fell in after. Miranda didn't know this new tune at all, but when AnaMaria held out her hand, brows arched in a playful challenge, she felt game to try.

But another body drew near, and a voice that was perhaps a touch unsteady asked, "Mind if I cut in, ma'am?" They both stilled, and looked up into the eager, if slightly anxious face of Sam Bottoms. AnaMaria stepped back as the young man bowed deeply, and Miranda dipped a curtsey in response.

Sam gave her a grateful smile. Then, much to her surprise, AnaMaria found the gunner bowing to her now. Only this time, his hand was held out.

"Miss Ana?"

Miranda knew that she would take the look on the girl's face with her to her grave. Dark eyes widening like a startled doe, AnaMaria looked from herself, to the outstretched hand, and finally to Sam's smiling face. Hesitantly, one could almost say shyly, she took the gunner's hand. Sam positively beamed then, and away they whirled.

Miranda backed away, clapping her hands in time. They moved well together, she noted approvingly. Young Sam was surprisingly light on his feet, and matched his partner's movements easily. And Ani... Miranda thought it well past time that the eminently capable First Mate was reminded that she was more than a 'steady hand before the mast', as sailors were want to say; she was also a lovely young woman, and more than deserving of being appreciated as such.

From the look of Sam, the gunner thought the same. Miranda retreated another step, intending to find her seat again. Never noting the presence of the body behind her until she backed into it.

"Oh! Pardon me, I wasn't watching where I was..."

Her voice failed her. Jack Sparrow stared down at her that way of his that made her breath catch. Made a wave of now familiar heat race from deep in her belly and outward. It seemed an eternity passed while she stood pinned to the spot, unable to wrench her eyes away.

Slowly, one tar stained, be-ringed hand lifted, held out to her. Just as slowly, his lips parted in that smile that had haunted her quiet moments.

"Milady?"

Miranda drew a breath, a number of gentle, thoroughly reasonable declinations clamoring to be uttered. A faint line appeared between his brows, and that smile faltered just a little, and almost before she knew it, her fingers rested lightly in his while that rebellious inner voice exalted deafeningly in the vaults of her mind.

"I don't know this dance," she whispered faintly. The admission only made his smile grow.

"No one'll ever know it," he replied, closing his fingers around hers, drawing her away from the ring of onlookers. "And I swear to mindful of Milady's toes."

It would seem that he had more than a passing familiarity with these steps, for he guided her as expertly as his piloted his ship, and exaggerated certain movement just enough to allow her to recognize where to make the appropriate responses. Soon enough, Miranda was barely aware of her feet touching the deck. The watching crowd faded to some distant corner of her consciousness, as did the energetic pair nearby. Her awareness was submerged in a world where joyous notes were one with the firm, gentle grip on her fingers, and the warmth of the hand resting lightly on her waist, guiding and propelling her. There was only the music and Jack, and the two became inseparable and interchangeable to her. In this moment the flash of his smile was for her alone. In this moment she was a desired woman dancing with an impossibly desireable man.

Disappointment stabbed like dull knives when the music ended and he relinquished her hand. The world around her came back in sharp focus. She noted from the edge of her vision Sam and AnaMaria bowing to each other, then to their audience. Before her, Jack brought his hands together, bending at the waist in that strange courtesy he'd paid her a time or two in their acquaintance. Miranda forced herself to look impassive, and sank low into the formal curtsey that her instructors had so strenuously drilled into her younger self. How oddly gratifying it was to see the sudden bemusement that marked his features. He opened his mouth to speak, but was cut off by his own men.

"Another one!" Mr. Kursar called. The burly cooper was still clapping madly.

"Aye," said Mr. Gibbs, who must have just ended the second 'dog watch'. Heaven -- was it truly that late already? The Quartermaster sat down by the pail of sea water, busily readying an intricately carved meerschaum. "I drew the short straw 'n missed the whole thing." Miranda glanced to the Captain, who appeared rather pleased with himself.

"How about something else," AnaMaria piped up, then. "Hey, Miranda -- how about showing us how the swells jig for old Georgie?"

"Oh..." It took Miranda several seconds to translate this entreaty. "Oh, well, I..." She foundered, wondering how AnaMaria could possibly believe her able to know what might be accepted fare in a court she'd not set foot in in well over a decade.

"Don't think we know anything about that." Miranda turned, seeing the musicians trade uncertain glances. "Ain't sure what's fit for the gentry," Mr. Ladbroc finished.

"Oh, that's simple enough," Sparrow interjected. Flashing an impudent grin, he went on, "Take your last bit, slow it down, and lean it as far towards the stuffy and ponderous as you can. Should just about do the trick." He ignored her reproachful frown with grand aplomb, but the four musicians turned to each other again.

Straightening then, Mr. Cotton rapped his bow sharply against the viola, and all eyes moved to the mute. The grizzled seaman sat still for a moment, then slowly turned his eyes upward in annoyance. The reason for his vexation became apparent: his parrot was fast asleep, oblivious for the first time in Miranda's memory to the silent command of its master. Mr. Cotton heaved a sigh, then began to wave his bow like a baton, describing a slow beat. Understanding, his fellows readied themselves as he next plucked at the strings in a stately, measured rhythm, then raised the bow once more.

"That's it, that's it," Sparrow encouraged. Nodding at the rich notes that filled the air, he lifted his hands, waving them about as though he fancied himself a conductor. Flute and fiddle blended smoothly in, hardly sounding ponderous to Miranda's ear, but certainly more restrained than before. She was hard pressed to not grind her teeth together, though, when the infuriating man rounded on their audience.

"Now gather in, mates, gather in. This one won't take up near the room. It's more like... like well timed posturing."

Miranda glared at his back, then transferred her dark look to AnaMaria, who only blinked back innocently when her cabinmate silently mouthed, "I swear I'll get you for this."

"See, it sort of starts off like this," Sparrow was saying. Then the man began to mince daintily around her. Miranda stared, torn between hilarity and outrage as he pranced his way about with affected steps. Those expressive hands held up at absurd angles, he tilted his head to and fro, managing to appear both haughty and bored. The crew roared with laughter at his antics as he continued to caper about, having apparently forgotten Miranda's presence until she lost all pretense of patience and stamped her foot, prompting more laughter, and an overplayed start on the Captain's part. Nose high in the air, he glided to her, sweeping a deep bow accompanied by more useless hand flutterings.

So this was the game he wanted to play, was it? Oh, to be sure he was merely trying to goad her into participation. Daring her to show him up for his clownish mockery, while her ruffled inner self piped up with an angry, '_are you going to let him get away with that?'  
_  
Perhaps at any other time she might have. Or at least abandoned him to pursue his tomfoolery alone. But tonight...

Once again Miranda dipped low, then let the music guide her through steps that were probably more suitable for Louis' court than 'old Georgie's', all the while wondering where in the world might this pirate have learned to dance like a French dandy. Miranda pondered this, sparing a thought of gratitude to a once resented Master of the Dance while they turned in place, Sparrow's arm brushing slowly against her shoulder. He smiled lazily, craning his neck to watch her with half lidded eyes, shadowing her every gesture and movement.

But there was more to this style of dance than 'well timed posturing', as he'd termed it; entire levels of meaning could be conveyed with the mere angle of a wrist and the tilt of a head. Volumes could be spoken in the lift of a brow. In the curl of lips, and meeting of eyes. In the set of one's shoulders, and in the occurrence of the briefest, ostensibly forbidden brushing of bodies.

Miranda remembered all of these. And when they were turned to face each other again, when gazing up from behind the curtain of her lashes, she dropped her masque of polite coolness, and unleashed them upon him.

Oh, not _all_ of them, to be sure. It was one thing to silently imply the possibility of a perhaps-not-so-innocent fondness, and quite another to 'hoist the signals' that would read to even the most oblivious as an invitation to the boudoir.

Jack Sparrow was not oblivious. His impeccable footwork faltered. Just for an instant, and Miranda doubted any but herself would have caught it. Between one beat and the next, the supercilious look slid from his face, replaced by a rather endearing flicker of bewilderment before settling into one that showed him to be cautiously intrigued. On the next beat he began to reply. And on the ones that followed, he responded in earnest.

Sweet Heaven, where had he learned to dance like this? Like a well bred swain he pressed his suit, hovering much closer than decorum should have allowed, but always just on the side of propriety and no further. And in the intervals that required the joining of their hands his thumb would pass gently over her fingertips, clinging to her for just that fraction of a second longer than necessary. Miranda suddenly wished she'd thought to bring up her fan. She was uncomfortable warm now, and strenuous motion had little to do with it.

It was when his thigh brushed her hip that she lost her nerve, for it was then that her mind wondered just how this seemingly inconsequential contact might feel if such barriers as the cloth between them were removed. Her breath caught. Biting on her lower lip, she dropped her eyes, realizing that her own game was flung back onto her head. He had won this round soundly.

He had won...

_And you, Miranda, are lost. Lost!_

Steeling herself, she forced herself to look up. Surely she had not sunk so low as to fling herself at him like a common whore. She had not! And if that smug, knowing look dared cross his face, she would despise him for it!

No. No, he would not bring her to that. Not tonight. His eyes remained on her face and Miranda knew he'd not missed a thing. But he merely gave one of those odd, sidelong nods and said, "All that's missing are the chandeliers and the harpsichord, eh?"

Miranda blinked in confusion, her movements becoming more mechanical. She knew he'd seen her lapse, and was certain he knew the reason for it. Why then did he not take advantage of it? What sort of man, noble or commoner, did not revel in his victories over a woman? Certainly, Edward had never been one to decline any humiliating opportunity to proclaim his mastery, public or no.

Yet here on this pirate ship she danced with a man who time and again placed his victories neatly into her hands.  
_  
And did your drunken afternoon in Jack's bed teach you nothing of the man? Miranda, you great ninny, if he was the kind to behave as you'd believe him...  
_  
Miranda tossed her head, pushing the thought away. "I find that I rather like the lantern light," she said quietly. "And the sound of a harpsichord makes my head ache."

"Ah. Like fingernails on slate board to you too, is it?"

Before she could respond to this bit of insight, Jack nodded to the musicians, then guided her to the dance's conclusion, sweeping again into that deep bow.

Returning his gesture, Miranda turned with one for the beaming players as well. She would have applauded them as avidly as their onlookers, save for the fact that another still had possession of her hand. Nor was he inclined to release her at present. Not until he'd pressed his lips to her knuckles, all the while holding her eyes with his own compelling stare.

"You dance divinely," he said in heavily accented, but quite passable French. "Lovely lady."

"A... a pleasure, Captain," she returned in kind. Then, in her mother tongue, "But you must tell me how you learned..." It occurred to her that the completing of this thought might be rather rude, implying that a man of his station shouldn't have the 'gentle bred' knowledge he possessed.

"How a nice English lad came to know how the French like to show off their Terpsichorean prowess?" Jack finished, deliberately misconstruing. "One might ask the same of a proper English lass such as yourself." He glanced beyond her, then back. "But right now I think your admirers would like a word, so what say you we tally this up with all those other things we've said we'd talk about, savvy?"

Miranda nodded slowly, finding herself somewhat fixated on the unexpected invocation of the ancient Muse of Dance. Who _was_ this so-very-strange man? Then she flushed, ducking her head to hide a smile. How many conversations had they promised each other in the course of their association, and how many times had they spoken of it in decidedly flirtatious overtones?

As if reading her thoughts -- again -- Sparrow chuckled softly, squeezing her fingers before releasing her to melt back into the crowd of his crew. Leaving her staring after him until AnaMaria stepped in front of her, eyes wide and face aglow with excitement.

"What was that?" AnaMaria demanded. "You... and then he just... How do you do that?" Then she threw a mischievous glance at Sam. "Can you teach me?"

The subtleties of the dance were not lost on her sharp eyed cabinmate, either. And so it was that Miranda found herself methodically instructing the First Mate in the basic forms of the dance, showing the placement of feet and posture of body. All the while accompanied by laughter: her own, AnaMaria's, and their curious onlookers. And if the little town of Tortuga still erupted in intermittent pistol fire, Miranda didn't notice. Music and laughter and the wonderful warmth of a sense of well being drowned out all else.

She spared no more thought for tomorrow; it would come soon enough.

Tonight, Miranda danced with the pirates. Tonight, Miranda was happy.

**A/N:** Once again we come to the end of another installment. And right now I'll admit that Miranda's feelings on the harpsichord are absolutely a reflection of my own, and I couldn't resist assigning like feelings to Jack. Nothing sets my teeth on edge quite like those blasted little arpeggios that get thrown in just before somebody opens up their mouths to sing. Which probably explains why my operatic tastes steer right to Wagner, Puccini, Strauss, and Verdi. Put quite plainly, Mozart drives me out of my skull. LOL! A thousand blessings upon Bartolommeo Cristofori: the inventor of the pianoforte, which lead to our modern day piano.

A thousand more blessings also to you, my dear readers, and to those who reviewed, heap on a few more for yourselves. You really keep me going. Thank you, thank you, thank you.

GeekMama: I SWEAR I'll make time to read Harry IV -- really, I will! Soon! Real Life's still real, and will keep being a little too real for at least the rest of this month. Ack! Jack Sparrow and a midlife crisis... Hmm... I never quite thought about it in those terms, but I think you may have hit on it. And his thought on the Tortuga Tarts (sounds like a band... or a sporting team, your choice) were just another example of something popping up that just seemed to work. More soon? Well, I'm workin' on it, I'm workin' on it. LOL!

Magheramoll: Whoa -- I'm your first FF review? Thank you so much! Feel free to keep commenting. LOL! I know, I'm shameless.

The Unknown: Well, here's the latest update. Better late than never, I guess. LOL! I've had "The Great Onion Incedent" in mind for a while, and finally found a good place to use it. Depp made a point about wanting Jack's breath to be "just awful" in a few scenes, so I just had to follow along. (grin) Glad you're enjoying this mega saga, and thank you for letting me know!

Ximinez: Hello, and welcome! I can't wait for the next installment either. LOL! Some chapters come easier than others. This latest one wouldn't be called an easy one. (EEEK!) Hope I can get the next one out much faster.

Circularwaffles: Oh, I'm glad you liked that "pop" effect. I was laughing as I wrote it. Thank you very much for your comments and wishes! Hey... July 7th isn't that far away anymore. Before we know it, we'll be seeing trailers, tv ads, and billboards. I can hardly wait! I just want to finish this first. (Eeeek! again!)

Luvcaptainjack: I didn't stop... I just sort of got sidetracked for a while. LOL!

Vertigo4Ever: Welcome, new reader, and thank you for your review! Ah, the onion breath... yep. Survey says: Ick! Hope you enjoy the lack of onion breath in this one.

Lucy: Thank you, thank you, thank you! And don't worry, the point is that you DID review! Hope I can keep this going to everyone's enjoyment!

Crystalvoicedcamelotlady: Happy to have made your Sunday! Does this one make your Thursday? (lol!)

Kaellana: Yep, RL just looooooves to muck up the works. It merrily dances in, and waltzes off with your free time, creativity, and inspiration. RL needs to go bug someone else for a while. LOL!

Thank you all for taking time to let me know what you think. I'm just thrilled that everyone seems to like this pairing so much, and the next chapter is... well, let's just say it's under development as we speak. Coming up next time: What happens when a gentle bred lady breathes deep of the proliferous bouquet that is Tortuga? Find out next time in The Story That Ate My Life!


	36. Chapter 32

Posting this in a great bloody rush tonight, so I just wanted to thank ALL of you who read that last chapter and let me know what you thought! I can't tell you what it means to me.

Now, just a note before we begin. I started this monster story without knowing that one of the cannon characters actually has a universally accepted name in PoTC fan-ficdom. This has been bugging me for quite some time, and when I have the time, I'll go back and correct this annoying error in my previous chapters.

For now I'm pleased to announce that the part in Between the Raindrops previously played by Lieutenant Leland Nilsen will now be taken over by (now Commander) Theodore Groves.

My sincere apologies for any and all confusion this might cause.

As always, anything you recognize probably belongs to that ruddy great rat... er... mouse. Yeah, that's it -- the mouse.

**Chapter 32**

If the waters of the Caribbean could be likened to haystack, Theodore Groves thought with more than a touch of annoyance, then the _Black Pearl _and her unpredictable captain might as well be a whole fleet of needles unto themselves. Hands clasped behind him, Groves slowly moved the length of the _Belerophon_, nodding in clipped manner to crewmen who acknowledged him with a tug of their forelocks.

In quite the contrast to the normal state of affairs -- or what passed for normal where the pirate, Jack Sparrow was concerned -- since departing for the Windward Passage, no less than four ships had reported sightings of a black sailed square-rigger in recent memory. Of these, however, Groves wasn't certain which could be considered remotely credible. For himself, he couldn't put much stock in the words of a half-drunken fisherman who swore that he'd seen a ship matching the _Black Pearl_'s description tossed about by roaring winds and crashing waves in the midst of calm seas, and glowing with an unnatural gray light. Groves could only count this as yet another of the superstitious legends that surrounded this particular ship. Those stories would fill several volumes of his ensign's logbooks, he'd wager.

Another vessel had the pirate ship making a nor'easterly heading for Spanish held territories when they'd seen her, while two more placed a ship they'd thought might have resembled Sparrow's ship traveling in completely opposing directions altogether. And these were the ships that had deigned to be helpful. Others ranged from uninformative to blatant rudeness

Groves felt a now-familiar knot of frustration clench in his stomach. What with slowing to question each ship that sailed across their path, progress had been almost nonexistent. He set his jaw, reminding himself that this too was to be expected in service to King and Country. Certainly James Norrington had endured such dull, fruitless times as these without complaint. Groves would allow no less from himself. If a thousand drunken shipmasters stood between himself and Tortuga, a thousand drunken shipmasters would be duly interrogated.

This dismal line of thought haunted him throughout the next hours, even when the cry from the crow's nest hailed the approach of a ship ahead, nearing off their larboard side. In the hours that followed, all fear of dull, fruitless pursuits evaporated. The newly minted Commander reflected that now would perhaps be too late to wish otherwise.

The ship proved to be a British merchant vessel. A slave ship, to be precise, and Groves imagined he could smell the despairing stench of it from where he stood. The ship had the look of one run hard, and the captain and crew's behavior was that of men recently and deeply disquieted. The _Belerophon_ had to identify herself three times before the slaver consented to bring his ship about and speak to them. When he did so, it was to relay a tale so steeped in the fantastic as to be almost laughable.

Groves did not laugh. Not when told of this slaver's encounter with, not one, but three ships all converging upon him with pirate's colors raised. Not when told of how two of the pirates turned on the third.

Not even when the slaver's captain, pale and shaken, spoke with dreadful conviction of what had transpired next: Of unnatural lights in the sky, storms rising with impossible speeds, and a column of water that obliterated all but the black sailed square-rigger. The captain admitted that he and his men had been running for their lives ever since, and intended to keep doing so until they reached safe harbor.

No, Groves did no laugh. He questioned and ruthlessly demanded reiteration many times over, but the replies were grievously consistent and emphatic. These men had seen what they had seen, and there was simply no way around it. Moreover, every one of these hard bitten sailors had a wild eyed look about them, and continuously glanced about in all directions, as if expecting attack from some unknown quarter. Clearly this entire crew balanced on the edge of panic.

Groves waved them on, knowing he would get nothing more. Had he not been under orders to proceed, he might have been tempted to follow the slaver, and remove himself and his ship from the situation. Instead, he ordered the Belerophon ahead, continuing through the Windward Passage on their heading for the French held waters of Haiti, Hispaniola, and the ill-reputed island of Tortuga. As the _Belerophon_ surged onward Groves found himself at the bow, staring at the vista before him while wondering what in the name of all that was holy was transpiring in this ocean. He had served faithfully in this, the Spanish Main, for enough years to know well the tales surrounding the near mythical _Black Pearl_, and the savagery of the murdurous Hector Barbossa. The night that saw the battle for the _Dauntless_ had proved the stories true, and then some. On that night the gates of Hell had opened, it seemed, and the damned had walked among the living. Many officers, Marines, and able bodied seamen had lost their lives that night, but it was far worse than even that. It was one thing to fear for life and limb against a vicious opponent. Quite another to come face to face with a sword wielding nightmare. To see Death itself grinning into your eyes as it lunged for you again and again, until, by some miricle, the enemy had been rendered mortal. No more to be feared than any other man.

Theodore Groves was not a madman. He had no wish to wage war against the supernatural ever again. But whether he wished it or no, his present course seemed destined to draw him into similar circumstances.

Why then, did it appear only natural that Jack Sparrow would once again be square in the thick of it? Did the rogue habituallly seek out these insane sort of happenings, or did the inexplicable ac tively flock to him like flies to a horse?

Groves shuddered. What, he wondered with dread, if the pirate had himself found the means to cause these events? Did the power to direct the forces of nature herself even now rest in the hands of a mercurial, unpredictable criminal who owed no allegiance to any crown or people? The thought was too terrible to contemplate, but nearly ten years of service in these waters -- waters where tatterdemalion sailed ships flew before the wind, fogbanks rendered even the most expensive compasses worthless, and swallowed entire fleets whole, and ancient curses sprang from legend to deadly reality -- had taught Groves this much: The idea was too probable to ignore.

o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-

Come on, luv," Jack called impatiently. "It'll be raining on us again soon. Do you want to be caught out in the jollyboat when the skies open?"

From behind the wooden door he heard a muted, but unmistakable curse.

"You are the one who suggested that my garments were not appropriate to the occasion, Captain." Miranda's voice scathed. "And as you did not see fit to inform me of this until after the only other woman aboard this ship had already departed for shore, and is, therefore, not here to help me, you've only yourself to blame for the delay."

Point taken. "Well, if it's problems dressing you're having, I'm game to lend a hand." He grinned, unable to resist needling her when the lady was in high temper. "Though admittedly, when it comes to ladies and their clothing, I've had more experience helping them _out_ than in."

"Captain Sparrow, why don't you take your '_helpful, experienced_' hands, and --" There was a heavy thump, followed by a sharp cry of pain.

"Alright there?" Jack called after a long silence. "Miranda?"

"My foot," she announced in strained tones, "has just met with your First Mate's sea chest. Pray don't distract me further."

Jack stifled his laughter. Wouldn't do to have her too angry, now, would it? He took to pacing back and forth, waiting for her to emerge, then leaned against the bulkhead, having nothing better to do than to literally twiddle his thumbs.

He supposed that he was, in a way, the one to blame for the fact that he stood here outside her door, instead of the both of them making their way through the round town with those of his crew not stuck aboard at anchor watch. When he'd spotted her that morning, he'd made the apparent cardinal error of asking when she'd planned to make herself ready for their landing. She'd replied with a nonplussed look that she was quite prepared, thank you very much, and what on earth did he mean by asking such. A low voiced argument ensued when he'd pointed out (quite reasonably, to his mind) that the picture she presented -- her gown a stark, unadorned gray, a shawl tucked into her bodice that nearly covered to her chin, and with her hair sharply pulled back into a militantly neat coil -- was more that of a Puritan than a woman set to coax information from a sodden rake of a former cleric. She'd looked frightened then, accusing him of trying to turn her into some sort of Delilah. Jack had responded, perhaps a bit unkindly, that they hadn't sailed all this way just for her Ladyship to have a womanish attack of delicacy at the last moment.

He'd learned then that his gentle, well-bred passenger had an astonishing talent for elegant invective. Some of the words she rained down upon him were so obscure that if it hadn't been for her obvious ire, Jack might not have realized that he was being told off. He'd held firm against the storm of her indignation, which lead him to where he stood now: waiting in the narrow passageway while the seething noblewoman changed into something more 'appropriate', and feeling the minutes crawl inexorable by.

At long last, the door swung wide. "Very well, Captain, I've done as asked," Miranda said in a rush, stepping from the cabin. "Now, may we please get this over with?"

"Hold on, hold on." He moved in front of her, frustrating her efforts to sweep past. "Let's see it first." She glared at him from beneath the hood of her cloak, lips compressed to a thin line.

"Is this truly necessary, Sir?"

"Well, we'll just have to find out then, won't we? Come on, luv. No need to be shy."

Her eyes flashed dangerously. Then her hands went to her hood, lifting it carefully back.

She'd done something different to her hair. Managed to pile it loosely atop her head, while allowing a few long curls to hang down one side to her shoulder. Quite becoming, he had to say. Still, he wished she'd just worn it down. "Very nice, very nice," he said, nodding in approval. Then he dropped his eyes to the clasp at her throat. "Now, how about the rest?"

Lord, but she certainly wasn't happy with him right at the moment. Jack would swear he could actually hear her teeth grinding together. But Miranda undid the clasp, and drew the dark wool from her shoulders.

Jack swallowed hard, quite deliberately biting at the inside of his cheek. She had taken his words to heart, and now stood before him in the dress she'd worn the day of their escape from Jamaica. Women's finery was usually lost on him, but this one he liked. The deep, midnight violet suited her. Made the color of her eyes stand out, and as he well remembered, offset the burnished sunset of her hair. The vines and flowering sprigs embroidered all about the stomacher and borders were lavish without seeming overdone, and here and there, glints of gold shot thread caught the light in interesting ways. Especially by the low, lace trimmed neckline that displayed her very nicely, to Jack's way of thinking. She wore no jewelry save for that ring today. Not even a ribbon to break the long line of her throat. Not that she needed it, he thought. A waste of time. Gilding the lily, and all that.

Still, something wasn't quite right, and while he tried to come up with a way to phrase it that wouldn't infuriate her and more than she already was, Jack took the opportunity to stroll around her, taking in the full effect.

"Much better," he complimented, wrenching his eyes away from the most intriguing view of the nape of her neck. "But as I mentioned, the men on Tortuga aren't used to ladies who are so... er... refined in their manner of dress. Is there something else you could do to yourself to..." He trailed off uncertainly. Miranda faced him.

"I'm not sure what you mean," she said. "I've already left off my fischu, as you asked."

"Your what? Oh, yes. That shawl -- thing." Jack rubbed thoughtfully at his chin, then held out his hands in a placating manner. "Now, don't take this wrong, luv, but isn't there something you could do to..." He cupped his hands before his chest, making a slight upward motion. Two angry spots of color rose in her cheeks and Jack spoke fast to head off the impending explosion.

"Now, now. Nothing as bad as what you're thinking. No need to be showing off your superstructure. Just..." He fluttered his hands helplessly. "Just... oh, for God's sake, woman, you bloody well know what I'm getting at! Just hoist your sails a bit higher."

"Don't swear at me," Miranda chided. Her lips squirmed, though, and the corners of her eyes crinkled with amusement. "'Hoist my sails', indeed. Well..." Folding her cloak over her arm, the noblewoman made for her cabin. "If that be the case, you must excuse me, Captain. It will take me some time to accomplish this."

"Some time..?"

Miranda turned, one brow arching sharply. "As I mentioned, AnaMaria has already left for shore. It takes some effort to..." Her cheeks flushed, but not with outrage this time. "To adjust one's corset by one's self," she finished quickly.

Jack surpressed the urge to roll his eyes. Why the higher bred found it so shameful to speak of something that every European woman under the sun wore daily was beyond him. Foolishness, he thought. Nearly as foolish as the corsets themselves. Though he had to admit these inconvenient contraptions did produce a most fascinating effect on a woman's body.

"Ah," he said. Then, placing a hand on the small of her back, he gently propelled her into her cabin, stepping in to close the door behind him. "Well, if that be the case, we'd best get started, eh?" His intent was immediately understood. Miranda's eyes narrowed.

"Captain Sparrow, if you believe for one single moment that --"

"Lady Warringford," Jack interrupted. "Time is getting away from us, if you'd failed to notice. Adding to that, we've three more ships put in this morning, and I can't claim to be on the best of terms with at least one of them. It is my intent to have Gorsse thoroughly besotted -- if not with you, then at least with your moneypurse --before dark, when things get too lively over there for us to effectively watch over you. And to get you safely back on this ship, where we effectively can. So if you'd be so kind as to turn 'round, I'll have that whalebone cage of yours tightened up in a trice, and we'll be on our way."

Her glare failing to quail him, Miranda sputtered out, "You... you... is there no end to your shamelessness, Sir?"

"Pirate," Jack said with a shrug. Then he cut her off again as she drew herself up, spoiling for a fight. "Oh, come now! Everybody in this room has seen women's undergarments before. In fact, I've twice seen Elizabeth in nothing more than a chemise, and she survived with her virtue intact." By damn, why was she being so bloody damned stubborn about this? "Miranda," he said sternly. "We don't. Have. Time for this. Now, you just turn around, and we'll get this over with. I swear I'll not breathe a word of it if you won't"

Miranda blinked back tears. Tear of fury, if he knew her at all, and her chin quivered pathetically. But she dutifully turned away and busied herself with the closures of her gown. "Fine for you to say," he heard her mutter snippily. "You're not the one asked to disrobe before a man not her hus... not her family."

"And you're not the famed buccaneer suddenly cast in the role of lady's maid," Jack snorted. " Think of what that does to a man's image." He thought he heard a chuckle in return, and Miranda shrugged the gown from her shoulders, murmuring to herself about corsets that laced solely from the front, and where to get them made.

Jack barely heard her. There was an odd rushing in his ears. He felt the easy smile slide from his face as his eyes traveled from the curve where her neck met her shoulders, and down to...

A cold knot clenched in his middle at the sight of the thin, faint lines that scored across the pale skin to disappear beneath the deep rose of her corset. But what captured and held his attention was the puckered, dead white patch of skin outlined vividly by livid, angry red. It was half covered by the strap of her undergarment, and almost resembled a strange little "r" laying on its side with a long spike and cruel hook. It had been left, he knew with a dreadful sense of familiarity, by a searing piece of metal pressed into her skin, and for a moment he wondered wildly as to what crime this, of all women, could have committed to warrant a brandmark.

Then he recognized it. A poker -- like the one her matron had brandished at him, weeks ago. The spike and hook used to prod and snag logs, and stir the flames on the grate of a fireplace. Jack's hand lifted, reaching out to draw the tip of his finger over the scar.

"He did this to you?"

It was more a flat statement, and there was no doubt as to the identity of the 'he' in question. Miranda, who had tensed slightly at the brief contact, seemed now to shrink into herself.

"Yes," she answered hollowly. "I almost forget it's there. Yes... yes, it must have been he. But there are... I have holes... in my memory. I suppose it's a blessing, really, and it was so long ago. But sometimes... sometimes I remember. He was angry... very angry. Well, he always was with me, but.. but there was a heavy weight... his foot on my back. And then burning, and..." She was shivering now, though the cabin was warming in the heat of the day. "I was never a good wife, he said. Never. He said he would teach me. He said --" Miranda's shoulders hunched. "Please... I would like to get dressed, now."

The tiny, broken voice almost broke him. That bastard had branded her, Jack thought through a haze of red. That bastard, Dunnthorpe, had done this, and more, to _his_ Miranda!

"Alright," was all he managed to choke out, and reached for her laces.

They worked quickly, silently for the most part. Jack didn't really trust himself to speak. Other than to ask if she was ready, or if he was lacing her too tightly. Miranda only answered with a nod or shake of her head, and when Jack softly announced "That's got it," and tied the laces into a sturdy knot, she covered herself as quickly as possible. Fastened the closures with unsteady hands, while keeping her eyes fixed to the mirror on the bulkhead. One of AnaMaria's few concessions to feminine vanity.

Jack stepped up behind her while a million ways of proving just how wrong_ his-bloody-bedamned-Lordship_ was went flashing though his brain. None of them would be at all appropriate at the moment. None except...

"Miranda..."

Her haunted eyes met his in the mirror. "Only give me another moment, Captain. Forgive me, I take so long, and I've never been able to--"

"Miranda," he began again, silencing her with a shake of his head. Hating the way she looked at him now -- like a small, frightened child. Hating what made her look at him that way. He made to reach for her, then let his hand drop helplessly to his side. "The shame's all on him, lass. You know that, don't you?"

Emotions flickered across her face, reflected in the wavering glass. "I... No matter what I did, it was never enough. Father never once raised a hand to my mother in anger. Not once. But Edward... " Miranda shook her head slowly. "I remember thinking him so very handsome when first we were introduced. What a fortunate woman I would be to have such as he for a husband." She gave a dry sort of laugh. "Fortunate -- can you imagine? But only days later, when we were wed... everything I did or said was cause for him to..." Her gaze dropped to tightly clenched hands. "Why?"

The whisper made his hands squeeze into fists. Made Jack sorely wish he could close them around a certain nobleman's throat. "Some men don't need a reason, my girl," he said roughly. "My father didn't."

The admission startled him. He'd never spoken of his father before. Well, not his real father. Hadn't even thought of the gin-soaked louse in over a decade. And even all these years later, he couldn't keep the hate from his voice. Miranda's eyes snapped up to him, filled with sympathy.

"And your mother? Did she..."

"Left 'im." The words felt like weights dropping from his mouth. "I was just a boy when she'd had enough. She put me to bed, kissed me goodnight, and come morning I woke up to him screaming for his breakfast." Tears spilled down Miranda's cheeks now. Turning, she lifted her face to him.

"You do understand..." she began haltingly, afraid of giving offense. "Under law, a father has all rights to... to the issue of his body."

"Oh, I know it, luv. He could've had us both dragged back if she'd taken me with." It wasn't as hard as he'd imagined to keep his voice level. Still, left unspoken was the plaintive wish to know just what life might have been his if...

_Ah, well. No sense wasting time chewing on that old soup now._

Jack shifted uncomfortably. This was surely more than he'd ever meant to say. But the door had been opened, and all he could do was brace himself for whatever inevitable questions the lady would barrage him with next.

Lips trembling, Miranda took a slow step towards him. Then another, moving up against him, and her arms were about him now. Tightening around him, and her hands timidly pressed at his back. Jack sighed, enfolding her gently. Feeling her body relax in their shared embrace.

"Someday," she asked in a tiny voice. "When this is done, will you tell me about her?"

Someday, he thought, resting his cheek against her hair. Not today. Not even tomorrow, but someday. What a wonderful word _someday_ was.

"Aye, lass. That I will."

Miranda leaned into him for some moments longer. Then, drawing away, she brushed at her dampened face. Jack let her go, feeling a sharp pang of loss. But it was for the best, he told himself. After all, he'd been the one to point out that the day wasn't getting any younger. "You about set?" he asked.

"Yes. No." Miranda frowned at her reflection in AnaMaria's mirror. "Not quite," she said. "First I need to..." Her reflected eyes sought him out. "Turn around."

"Pardon?"

"Turn around," she commanded primly. "I've enough of your impudence this hour as it is. I'll not do anything more with you standing there, ogling me."

This time he did roll his eyes. What -- was it some terrible breach of unknown etiquette to watch a woman powder her nose these days? Or paint her lips? But he did as told and faced the opposite, toying absently with the knickknacks and bottles scattered across the small table.

"I wish you hadn't insisted on this," Miranda's voice floated back. "I don't see why I can't simply assume a sailor's garb, and bribe Gorsse outright. A false beard, and perhaps an eye patch -- oh, honestly, Captain Sparrow! I see no cause for such unseemly hilarity!"

Of course she didn't. She was absolutely serious, bless her. Which was why Jack was doubled over, fighting to catch his breath, laughing until his sides ached in protest. This was AnaMaria's influence, he realized. That one had cultivated her ability to disguise herself as a youth for years. But AnaMaria was tall for a lass. All arms and legs and hard muscle well conditioned from life aboard ship. The idea of the woman behind him masquerading herself as a man -- much less a bearded sea dog -- was more than he could stand.

The frosty silence from her side of the room sobered him soon enough. As did his own well tuned sense of self preservation. There were enough women where they were going who enjoyed warming their dainty hands by bringing them into abrupt contact with his face. Jack didn't care to give cause to another.

"I look ridiculous," Miranda complained suddenly. "I've too much... Oh, this is embarrassing!"

"What? Too much powder? An over-aplication of rouge, perhaps?" Curiosity was getting the better of him. "Care to give a body a hint, I'm all out of guesses." Her sigh was more a growl this time.

"Could we just go? Before I come to my senses, and tell you to go to the devil, that is."

"No need to start swearing at me, luv. I've been trying to get us underway all morning. And though it pains your humble servant to say it, I'm afraid you're the one to be less than coop... er... a... tive..." As he glimpsed her, the toe of his boot caught in the faded woven rug. Jack staggered gracelessly into the table, causing a great jangle of glass. He lunged after the bottles, frantically trying to catch them before they fell, but ended up fumbling the lot.

"No face paint?" he asked to cover his embarrassment, trying (_and failing miserably, old boy!_) to find a safe place to alight his eyes that wouldn't draw them immediately to the overpowering view of feminine charms now so artfully displayed.

_By damn, but when the lady hoisted her sails..!_

"I'll pinch my cheeks, if need be," Miranda retorted hotly. "I already look like a shameless hussy. I'll not be adding to it by painting myself like some over made-up tart!" The steel in her words dared him to say different, but Jack wasn't feeling particularly suicidal at the moment. With an effort he translated his attention from the enticement of her overflowing bodice, to fix steadily on her pale face.

"You hardly look that, luv."

Miranda snatched up her fan, fluttering it before her in more a ploy to cover herself than anything else. "Cavorting around on a lawless island with half my bosom hanging out for the world to see... What would my mother say?"

"Probably that you're doing what's needed to take the prize, if she was anything like her daughter." Jack was pleased to see her tense features soften. Always had a way with words, he did. Nice to know he hadn't lost his touch.

"The prize," she echoed softly. "Freedom from Edward. And this creature with him. Freedom..." Her wistful voice trailed off.

"Aye, freedom." Jack felt his stomach tighten at the way that word left her lips. He approached her carefully and draped her cloak around her shoulders. "So what say you we make that merry thought come to pass?" With that, he proffered his arm. Taking his elbow, Miranda allowed him to lead her from her cabin, and to their waiting jollyboat, where they were smoothly lowered into the water, accompanied by well wishes from the men still aboard the _Pearl_.

Their trip across the harbor was a quiet one. Jack saved his breath for rowing, and Miranda, face half hidden by the hood of her cloak, was too preoccupied for speech. Jack docked them at the smaller of the piers, and lifted the lady up beside him. Traded a half smile with her as they both wavered on the unmoving surface, making her hold fast to his arm. He scanned the sky. Almost noon, near as he could tell. Rain would be upon them soon, but by the look of the clouds, it would be an easy fall. Enough to wash the decks, and gone soon after.

A good thing, he thought. Difficult to spot a body trying to sneak up on you through sheets of pouring rain. There was plenty to be wary of in this port as it was.

"Come on, darlin'," he said. "We'll warm our bones at the Bride, and wait for word that Gorsse has crawled out of his hole for the day." But when he turned to walk, Miranda remained stock still, the hand on his arm tightening with white knuckled fervor. She stared past him up the length of the pier, where a pair of burly fellows were involved in a heated shoving match with a scrawny, frightened looking man. Jack vaguely recognized the skinny one as a cutpurse and pickpocket. Probably caught in mid-pick, he thought with a snort. Nearby, a greasy individual balanced haphazardly atop a pile of barrels. His earthenware jug was clutched to his breast as a mother cradles her child, while a pair of slovenly dressed women beckoned to him with shrill voices and insistent gestures. Others moved to and fro -- some drunk as lords, some showing the obvious aftereffects of similar revelry. A few lurked about, glancing shiftily around them as if in search of a likely target. None were of any hazard to them personally, but for just a moment Jack allowed himself to experience the sights and sounds through other, less jaded eyes.

"Losing faith in me already, are we?" he said lightly. As an effort to divert her, it was a poor one. White to the lips, Miranda's eyes darted from one perceived threat to the next. In another moment she would lose her nerve entirely.

"Miranda." Jack placed himself squarely in her sight. "Miranda, look at me." For once this entreaty failed. She was already too far gone. He narrowed his eyes, then heaved a great sigh, patting heavily at her stiff little hand. "Poor lass. Pity, but I suppose it's too much for a fragile girl such as yourself after all. Alright then, nothing to be done about it. It's back to the ship with you, and old Jack'll sort it out all by his onesy. Come on, back in the boat now."

It was a gamble, he knew. Miranda's eyes flew to himself, wide and hurt-filled. Her mood visibly transformed from fear to outrage, and she wrenched her hand from beneath his condescending treatment.

_That's it, that's it_, Jack thought triumphantly._ Be damned if you'll be treated like a babe in nappies, won't you, luv? Now, give me a show of that high-toned temper of yours!_

But it was a glow of humor that spread in her eyes, cooling the sparks of ire. A faint smile tugged at her lips. "Well played, Sir," she admitted. "You almost had me."

_Clever girl_. "You alright now?"

"I... no," Miranda stammered. Then her chin lifted. "But I'll not allow that to stop us now."

Jack grinned. "That's all I needed to hear. Come on. Deep breath now." Miranda exhaled slowly, then gave him a shakey nod.

"Good," he pronounced, returning the nod firmly. "Now, your conquest awaits, Milady." Sweeping his arm out to indicate the whole of Tortuga, Jack raised his brows expectantly, and again offered his elbow.

"Shall we?"


	37. Chapter 33

My sincerest apologies to every one of my readers for leaving you hanging for so long. Real Life has been... well, _real._ I'm only just beginning to calm down to what passes for normal for me. But here's the latest chapter, of which everything that you recognize doesn't belong to me. (grumble, grumble, grumble!) **  
**

**Chapter 33**

_So this was a pirate's paradise... _

Lifting the hem of her skirts to avoid a puddle of some noisome substance, Miranda stole covert glances at this new world that she moved through. As port towns went, Tortuga was like any other she'd visited. That it reeked of unwholesome odors was a given. Miranda had yet to meet with a harbor that didn't smell like a brine-soaked midden heap. Why did people never seem to learn that garbage ridded in the convenient nearness of the ocean always returned upon the next tide? That the docks and shoreline teemed with all manner of rough men was also nothing remarkable. Wherever accessible land met accommodating sea there would always be cargo to load and unload, and the sweat soaked, flinty men who did so.

No, it was the very air that set her on edge and brought the fine hairs on her arms and at the back of her neck to stand upright. The sense of some terribly ravenous creature lurking just out of sight, waiting to be woken and unleashed. A sense that only deepened with every step that took her further from the water's edge and into the disreputable looking township.

Miranda made no effort to shrug off this notion. The subtle change in the man to whose arm she clung warned her otherwise. Angling her head, she studied his profile, wishing not for the first time that she could read what thoughts ran through his mind.

All outwardly unconcerned, Jack Sparrow lead her through crabbed, sorry little streets. His half lidded eyes glanced neither right nor left, but pointed straight ahead to his intended destination. He walked with the easy, rolling stride of a man long accustomed to the sea, which admittedly made it difficult to step gracefully along beside without the scabbard at his hip knocking into her. Miranda threw decorum aside and matched his walk. Who would know or care if she swayed like a seaman? Of far greater import to her was that sword to remain unimpeded.

For it was this walk that gave him away first. There was not a hint of the extraneous motion she'd seen him cloak himself with in Port Royal, or, to a certain extent, Havana. He was not trying to paint himself as foppish or ineffectual on this day, but moved as a predator among predators. One hand rested lightly on the butt of his pistol, and the arm beneath her fingers, despite his negligent exterior, felt like coiled steel.

And that profile... Despite those lazily hooded eyes, and the lips that were relaxed, even bent in a languorous curve, Miranda saw a muscle ripple along the side of his jaw that betrayed the clenching of teeth.

Jack's kohl-lined eyes flicked to herself. His smile spread, giving her a brief flash of gold and ivory. "See anything you're liking, Milady?"

"No," Miranda blurted, unthinking. Then added hastily when he looked down his nose in lofty affront, "That is, not entirely. I couldn't help but to notice that you are as ill at ease as I."

"Ah..." he intoned, nodding sagely. Jack glanced about then, and steered her into a small space between two ramshackle buildings. "I'll not lie to you, Miranda. We're right in the teeth of it now. Moreso than Cuba." He favored her with that cocksure grin, but his eyes were serious. "Only difference is, here we _know_ there be monsters, eh?"

Miranda swallowed hard, and nodded.

"Good. So the neither of us will be letting our guard down, will we? Good lass." he said again when Miranda shook her head. "Now, a word of advice, if you don't mind -- you're a lamb amongst wolves here. You know it. I know it." Jack moved in, closing the already limited space between them. "But the wolves don't need to know it. So put up that haughty, aristocratic air of yours. In fact, use that face you throw on when someone says something you don't like hearing. Just don't let 'em see you're a lamb. Savvy?"

In other words, she was not to show that she wished nothing more than to run screaming from this dreadful place. Oh, a trifling thing, to be sure! And perhaps the moon was made of butter cake!

"I... savvy," was all she could manage. Jack continued to regard her steadily.

"Like the reefs and shoals of His Majesty's court, remember? It's just... another kind of court, if you will. One that doesn't smell as nice, perhaps."

Miranda wrinkled her nose. "I would say you've never had to control your behavior in the face of the unwashed aristocracy." His words were of some comfort, though. This could merely be another exercise in decorum: of knowing when to not offer offense, and when to assert one's self. It was an old and familiar game, and once upon a time, one nearly as great a matter of life and death as the game she would play now. She reflected that it might be an easier game with an island of howling cutthroats than with courtiers. The former might even be counted upon to prove bluntly honest in their avarice and brutality, and at least a knife or a pistol was more above board than honeyed, venomous whispers behind perfumed gloves and fluttering fans. Both, after all, were equally capable of immeasurable harm.

"Unwashed, eh?" Sparrow repeated with an amused tilt to his head. "Like swine drenched with attar of roses, wasn't it?"

Oh, dear... so she truly had spoken those words aloud. The memory was shrouded in a rum hazed fog, but she felt her cheeks color nonetheless. Sparrow was chuckling thoughtfully.

"Aye. Exactly like your smelly highbrows, then. But there's just one more bit of business before we beard the dragons in their den, lady. Answer me this first: What's your best weapon?"

His question catching her completely wrong footed, Miranda could only blink foolishly. 'Best weapon'... what weapon? She carried no firearm upon her person. Not even a knife or a scalpel, which in retrospect showed poor planning on her part. "I... I'm afraid I've left my pistol aboard the _Black Pearl_," she began apologetically.

"Oh, no need for stowing one of those in your skirts," he said quickly, then added in an undertone, "and besides, I've seen you shoot. And before I find myself skewered by the daggers spitting from Milady's lovely eyes," Jack went on, raising his voice over her indignant exclamation, "I'll remind you again that your best weapon's here." One long forefinger tapped at his temple, then slipped beneath her hood to touch at her own.

"Here. Your best weapon is here. But only -- only -- if you keep your wits." Jack drew his fingertip from cheek to jaw, then under her chin to tip her head back. "Though I'd not be so fast to discount other more... er... tangible assets in your arsenal."

Against her will Miranda's eyes dipped to her cloak covered bodice, and knew with mortification that the pirate had done the same.

"Charming as those thoughts may be," Sparrow laughed. "That's not quite what I was steering at." And Miranda, feeling rather silly, laughed as well. Something changed then. Miranda couldn't guess as to why, but her companion's eyes flashed. Only for a moment, but in the next those painted eyes regarded her in a way that made her knees tremble.

"Now that's more what I was meaning," he said softly. "I'll just beg you now to mind who you unleash those smiles on, Qianru. I'd hate to end up having to call out one of my own friends over you."

_Qianru_... "You... you heard Master Zheng..."

"Call you by that name? Oh yes -- in between the laudanum the two of you kept foisting on me. 'Treasured pleasing smile,' wasn't it? Wise bloke, this teacher of yours."

He stood so very near. Miranda imagined that she could see flecks of amber in the darkness of his eyes. "You are a flatterer, as well as outlaw, Captain Sparrow." she whispered on a throat gone horribly dry.

"Flatterer?" Jack repeated mildly. "Why, I'm nothing of the sort! If you're thinking I'm paying you compliments excessive and undeserved, I'll have you know --" The thought was left unfinished as just then thunder rumbled sullenly in the distance. Jack glanced up with a frown, and blinked as the first droplet of rain saw fit to bounce itself off the tip of his nose. More followed in rapid succession, as rain will do. Especially when most inconvenient.

_So much for not getting wet_, Miranda thought with a stifled giggle. _'Running between the raindrops,'_ _indeed, Ani._ Jack gave a much put-upon sigh.

"I'm taking it that's our cue. C'mon, let's get you out of this weather." He drew her into the dismal little street. "Can't have you looking like a drowned rat, now can we? Might ruin the effect."

Their steps took them on a path that convinced Miranda that the seediest and most disreputable people to ever populate a wharf town had been summarily picked up and deposited on this island. Men in obvious states of drunkenness littered the streets and doorways. She was forced to step over two before her companion -- whether for pity's sake, or for the goal of quickly reaching shelter -- had resorted to the simple expedience of bodily lifting her over prostrate inebriates just beginning to stir under the pelting rain.

Head lowered, Miranda kept her eyes on the ground that darkened under the rainfall that pattered on her hood. Around her the denizens of Tortuga scurried for cover. An overly powdered woman clad in a gown of mustard yellow hurried past. Vile curses spilled from her mouth as the rain brought an unhealthy pockmarked look to her artificially whitened skin. Jack lead them beneath a narrow archway, then neatly danced aside, sweeping Miranda straight off her feet. Miranda had cause to be grateful for the strength of those deceptively wiry arms as his actions carried her up and away from the path of several grimy individuals all barreling to reach the archway.

"Wait," he said calmly, and pinned her body to the wall with his own.

"What --" Miranda began, but he pressed nearer as pistol fire exploded somewhere close by. Two shots passed so near she could hear their whistling passage through the air. She flinched, clutching at her protector while one of the fleeing men voiced a high pitched, derisive laugh that faded with his rushing footsteps.

"All right, then." she heard Jack say, sounding for all the world as if nothing untoward had occurred at all. "Just up the way a bit." And patiently disengaging her shaking hands from their deathgrip on his coat, he placed an arm around her shoulders, keeping her close to his side as he resumed his rolling stride. Miranda had no choice but to go along, though her knees threatened to abandon their job of holding her upright and her heart slammed against her ribs in a painful tattoo.

"Cobb," he said conversationally to a white haired man seated beneath an overhang. The fellow bobbed his head and grunted a reply. But he never even glanced their way as he busily shoved a ramrod down the barrel of a pistol. A second firearm was tucked under his arm as he reloaded his weapons, all the while muttering steadily to himself.

How could Jack be so calm, Miranda wondered, once again studying his profile. That 'Cobb' person could have just killed the both of them, and yet to Sparrow it seemed to carry no more import than if he'd just been asked the time of day! Then she saw the muscle ripple in his jaw again and realized that he'd not yet removed his arm from around her. Nor did he do so until he'd lead the both of them to the entrance of a place more sturdily built than others they'd passed today.

'The Faithful Bride,' the sign read, while the cunningly crafted figure of a gowned and veiled woman continuously raised and lowered her carved nosegay of flowers. It gave Miranda an odd turn when she noted that this bride's wrists were rope-bound beneath her bouquet, but she had no time to dwell on this as she was propelled across the threshold. Inside, Jack steered her to the far end of the wide room, seating himself beside her at a table that, Miranda belatedly recognized, allowed him a clear view of most of the tavern.

The view, in her opinion, was not a marked improvement over what they'd left outside. There was an almost overwhelming odor of ale in the air, mixing with oil and wood smoke, and the scent of unwashed bodies. Miranda wrinkled her nose fastidiosly. The smokey tavern was filled with men whose appearances ranged from pleasantly casual, to warily forbidding, to outright homicidal in the case of the scarred, grizzled man with the eye patch who sat several tables away. He pared his nails with a wickedly curved knife while his remaining eye glittered viciously in the candlelight.

Miranda pressed herself farther into the wall at her back while Jack flirted outrageously with a serving girl who soon lost her bored demeanor and wriggled like an excited puppy at the pirate's attentions.

"No worries, luv," he said when the girl had gone. "Right now all these gentlemen are tied up in talking business. Bartering and selling their hauls, and the like." Leaning back, Sparrow's eyes swept the room, then flickered back to herself. "Won't be 'til everyone's reached a satisfactory accord that the celebrating'll get underway."

If what she'd heard last night from the deck of the _Black Pearl_ was a true barometer by which to judge the celebratory norms, Miranda would happily forego the experience. She was tensed as a small animal whose only defense against a much larger predator was to remain perfectly still and hope to remain unnoticed. Not like her companion, who was able to embody the very picture of indolent ease. How anyone could appear to lounge whilst seated upon an uncomfortable wooden bench with stone walls as a backrest was beyond her, but the pirate managed with a naturalness that was infuriating.

But then, Miranda reflected, he'd certainly had more occasion to practice than she.

And after all, as she was sure he'd say himself, he _was_ Captain Jack Sparrow.

Their serving girl, Betsy, threaded her way through the assorted patrons, avoiding collisions with painted and powdered bawdy women involved in securing business transactions of their own. The wench halted at their table to deposit earthenware cups of what Miranda presumed was the answer to Sparrow's request for 'something warming.' Next was a loaf of steaming, golden crusted bread and a generous lump of butter. Miranda's drink was set before her with unnecessary force. There was noticeable less liquid in it than Sparrow's, and young Betsy regarded her in a decidedly unfriendly way. But the girl was soon fawning and giggling all over the bench's other occupant again when Sparrow fondly patted her rosy cheek and passed on a few coins 'for her troubles.' Miranda breathed a thanks to Heaven when demands for the wench's service spared her a further display of bright-eyed, heaving-bosomed gratitude.

"Shameful man!" she whispered with more heat than she actually felt.

"What've I done now?" Jack demanded, blinking injured innocence. Miranda shook her head.

"Toying with that girl," she fumed. "Leading her on so. And did you see how she glared at me? For a moment I feared she might pour these drinks on my head!"

He laughed that low, secretive laugh. "Then let's not give her the chance." Jack drank deeply, smacking his lips with relish. "Wouldn't want to see your pretty dress ruined. You should try some of that before it cools," he added, nodding at her cup. Miranda lifted it, sniffing the contents suspiciously, then took a tiny sip. Mulled wine, she noted with some surprise. And a very good mulled wine, at that. Warm and rich, and something she felt wouldn't quickly addle her wits.

"Have some of this, too." A chunk of bread liberally coated with butter was waved under her nose. "You'll not find better in the whole of the Spanish Main. My word on it."

Glowing praise indeed. And from the smell of it quite possibly deserved. Miranda's stomach growled unbecomingly at the heady aroma. She'd not taken much for breakfast. Not with her insides jumping about as distressingly as they had this morning.

"Ah, ah, ah..." Sparrow chided, moving the morsel tantalizingly out of reach. With his painted eyes half lidded and a familiar lazy smile on his lips he brought his hand slowly back. Stomach now aflutter for a new reason, Miranda could only guess that he meant for her to eat from his hand. A hand that, like its mate, was remarkably clean and tar free on this day, but even so...

"Come on, luv," he pressed. "I swear you'll not regret it."

Miranda eyed him dubiously, but then leaned forward obedient as a baby bird, and allowed him to feed her. In another time and place such an act might have seemed extraordinarily intimate. In the here and now he gazed expectantly, like a child hoping for praise. "It's wonderful," she admitted truthfully, and he couldn't have beamed any wider than if he'd baked the loaf himself. Popping the remains into his mouth, Jack busied himself with readying a slice for each of them.

"Here you are." He passed one along. "Didn't I tell you you'd taste no better?" Mouth full, Miranda nodded. A good thing it was that he was right. The whole lot could have tasted of tree bark and sawdust and she imagined she'd have downed it without a second thought to see him smile like that.

"How long are we to wait here?" she asked while Sparrow licked butter and crumbs from his fingers. As if in answer a bright flash of light pierced the shuttered windows, and a loud peal of thunder shook the very wall at her back. Miranda jumped, hands gripping the edge of the knife-gouged table.

"All right there?" Jack gave her an odd look. Miranda willed herself calm.

"I... yes. Yes, I'm fine." But she'd never in her life been truly at ease in this kind of weather, and couldn't really say if it was the thunder or the lightning that unnerved her more. "Just like your mother," papa used to say with a great roll of his eyes when she would run to hold mama's hand whenever the flashing and rumbling had drawn to near. Not ever Elisse's taunts or Eleanor's entreats to come and watch the lights had ever made the slightest difference.

"This storm's all bark, no bite," Jack was saying evenly. "S'right over us now, but it'll be on its soggy way soon enough." Miranda shuddered at the thought of a storm right over her head.

"Once it's cleared up, the lads know to come straight here when Thadius shows himself." Jack grinned knowingly. "Never was one for pulling himself out of bed early. Doubt he's changed his ways since we last crossed paths." His eyes drifted to the clasp of her cloak, and then before she could object, or even move to stop him, his hands had opened the clasp and drawn the hood from her head. "We've a while to wait, luv. Might as well make yourself comfortable."

Raw nerves and the sudden feeling of exposure made her snappish. "Thank you, Mister Sparrow, but I was quite comfortable as I was." No sooner had the words left her mouth when the next thunderclap, so shockingly loud that it might as well have originated from right beside her, found Miranda virtually climbing into the pirate's lap.

"Well, well," Sparrow drawled, sounding insufferable cheerful. "Perhaps I should steer for foul weather more often." But the arm around her held her firmly, and his hand alternately squeezed and rubbed calming circles on her shoulder.

"Don't even joke about it." Miranda's voice sounded weak to her ears. She felt a flush of shame for such childish cowardice. "I can't help it," she complained. "I've sailed through swells that made even veteran seaman hang over the side without ever turning a hair, but when the... the flashing and crashing starts, and..." Well, that was when she wanted to crawl beneath the nearest piece of furniture as she vaguely recalled doing as a child.

Or, as this moment proved, into Jack Sparrow's lap. "Oh, bother it! I don't even know why I'm telling you this." But meeting his eyes Miranda saw a look of hurt flash through them, and felt dreadful all over again.

"No, s'all right, luv." Jack's arm tightened around her when she tried to scoot away. "I don't mind it, really. And besides..." He gestured with his head to the other tables. "You seeming a bit familiar an' all with me might go a long way in convincing these gentlemen that your attentions are already secured for the time being."

Miranda winced. It seemed she was destined to play the whore this day no matter how she might wish otherwise. But a cool little voice pointed out that it might be wise to give some weight to what her far worldlier companion suggested. So she leaned against him and Jack diverted her attention from the noise of the storm with a steady flow of what proved to be highly amusing anecdotes about several of the men now present in the tavern.

"You can't be serious!" she exclaimed, glancing askance to the hulking figure seated with his back to them. Jack's lips twitched.

"May my hair turn green if I'm not. And that's how they found him: mother-naked, all tangled up in the nets, and the goat had gotten clean away. Said it took three days to sober him up, and when he finally did, they all --"

A knife struck into the center of their table with a resounding thunk. Miranda jumped again but Jack only spared a cool gaze for the one eyed man whose grimy fingers were still wrapped around the hilt.

"Hammer," Jack said evenly.

"Sparrow," the other returned with equal calm.

Sweet Heaven, but this appalling vision was even moreso at close range! It was almost easy to understand the reasoning behind the strange appellation of 'Hammer', for the thought flitted through Miranda's mind that this pirate appeared to have received several blows to his face with one. The face in question was a pockmarked mess smeared liberally with grime and crossed with scars: some faint and others much less so, like the one that began at his hairline to run beneath the eye patch, and disappeared somewhere in the vicinity of of his scraggly, graying beard. His large nose had been broken at least once, and reset quite poorly to her practiced eye, and, as she quickly realized, there was a decidedly sour aroma emanating from him. Then, the single eye shifted to herself, raking for an endless moment over her face, as though he was determined to commit it to memory, only to drop, lingering for a most inappropriate amount of time on the front of her dress. Lips thin as a knife gash twisted into something that resembled a smile in name only.

"Yer a pretty little thing, ainchoo?" the ugly man observed. "I could look at ye all day long, I could."

Miranda wanted to shrink in her seat. Wanted to press closer into Jack's side, but the single eye riveted to her bosom held her frozen in place. She only stared dumbly until a nudge from Sparrow's knee against hers snapped her out of her paralysis. Remembering what he'd told her outside about disguising her apparent lamb-like nature, Miranda tipped up her nose and regarded the hideous pirate with chill disdain.

"Regrettably, sir, the same cannot be said of you."

Jack stiffened with a strangled croak while Hammer's eye snapped up to lock with hers. Amazingly, he began to laugh. A sound like ancient, rusty hinges that was about as pleasant as the rest of him.

"Ooh -- got a smart mouth, she has," he remarked aloud in a tone that implied that this was something unusual. As if a pet dog had begun to converse in the King's English. "Think I like her anyways." His eye still boring into her, the man stepped boldly over their table's opposing bench and settled himself onto it. His hand had never released the hilt of his knife. To Miranda's immense relief his attention at last transferred from herself.

"So," Hammer said in a voice like gravel grinding over broken glass. "Back, are ye?"

"It would seem that way." Jack's tone was light. Hammer scowled, the look not improving his twisted features, then made an attempt to appear pleasant. This effect was even worse, in Miranda's opinion.

"So, what be yer pupose, if I may?"

"Oh, a bit o' this, a bit o' that," Jack replied evasively.

"Business must be treatin' ye well," Hammer observed with a covert glance at Miranda.

"Can't say that I have any complaints of late," her companion admitted.

"Looks like," Hammer agreed, a bit sourly. "Seems yer luck is favoring ye again, eh?"

Jack only shrugged in self-deprication. Miranda wondered just how long this fellow would continue to clumsily 'feel them out.' If there was a point to this questioning, she hoped it would be reached soon, and that this foul smelling creature would quickly be on his way. Jack was completely unmoved throughout, one arm still draped around her shoulders, and his demeanor that of a man not a whit concerned by the fact that this fellow was still toying with his wicked looking knife. Hammer grunted, as if something had been answered, then narrowed his remaining eye.

"Thought ye'd taken it into yer head t' leave these parts, Sparrow," he all but accused. "Heard ye were for huntin' bigger game someplace more friendly-like. Said there be nothin' left t' keep yer interest in these waters."

Jack bared his teeth in a grin. Miranda found herself eyed in a leisurely fashion. "Oh, I think I've managed to find a couple of things to... hold my interest."

Hammer barked a laugh. "Aye, I'd noticed those m'self. Ye sellin' this one, Sparrow? I know the auction's not 'til tomorrow, but if yer willin' to be makin' an early start of it..." He left the thought hanging and pulled a large, ridiculously fat pouch from beneath his coat, jingling the contents suggestively. "An' seeing as yer always sayin' how women 'r nothin' but distractin' like, I'd not mind takin' her off yer hands."

Miranda's stomach plummeted. Bile rose into her throat as she remembered rumors of women abducted and sold like cattle to the drunken patrons of this island. Finding now that more than a grain of truth was behind these rumors made her want to claw her way free from the hand that tightened on her shoulder. For one panicked instant she wondered if all of Jack Sparrow's actions had been nothing more than an elaborate ruse to lure her from the safety of her home and bring her here for the true purpose of selling her to whomever had enough coin to suit his fancy.

"Oh, I don't know, mate." she heard Sparrow saying. "I've been waiting for the chance to enjoy this particular distraction for quite some time. I'm just not..." He paused and released his breath in a deep sigh. "Not feeling enough incentive to even think of changing those plans now."

Hammer gave a calculating squint. "There's nigh on eighty gold here, Sparrow," he growled, shaking the pouch again. "N' more than half again that aboard me ship. An' two full chests 'o silver beside! You give the nod, n' that'll all be in yer hands in two bells. Two bell! Now what d'ye say t' that, eh?" he emphasized, his hungry gaze shifting eagerly from Miranda, to Sparrow and back.

Miranda cast about herself, once again cursing her foolish trust and ignorance in not arming herself this morning. She knew there could be no way for her to pull Sparrow's own sword from it's sheath. Not with the pommel digging into her side as it was, and making a grab for the pistol was completely out of the question. Thought it would surely take more than even a brace of pistols to see her safely out of this trap. Her eyes fell on the knife laying beside the half loaf of bread still before them as Sparrow shifted, leaning back to stare thoughtfully at the vile creature across the table.

"Well..." he drawled slowly. "I'd have to say you make it difficult for a businessman such as myself to ignore an offer like that." Sparrow appeared to think hard on it, cocking his head in appraisal. "But seeing as you seem to have your mind set on it..."

"Done, by damn!" Hammer brought the palm of his hand down on the tabletop with his exclamation of glee. Grinning like a demon he wrenched his dagger free, and bolted to his feet. He'd made it three steps from the table when Sparrow spoke up again.

"Though it's only fair to warn you, mate: the last man to lay unwanted hands on this little prize finished his endeavor toes up with a shot in his brain case."

Hammer froze. So did Miranda in the very act of reaching for the bread knife. She'd hoped the movement looked casual, but in all truth she had not the slightest idea about what she could possibly achieve with such a pathetic excuse for a weapon. However, if these pirates thought that she would meekly submit to something so foul as this...

Now her mind exhalted. Jack had not betrayed her after all! Miranda closed her fingers around the knife, gripping hard to disguise the trembling of her hand, and calmly cut another slice of bread.

The ugly man turned slowly. "Ye doan say," he rumbled suspiciously.

"Oh, yes." Miranda didn't dare to look his way, but she could easily hear the smile in Sparrow's voice. "It was a mistake poor old 'Capitain' Javier will never make again."

This time Hammer started violently. "Javier... Vallasquar?" he said, sounding uncertain for the first time. Around them all conversation in the tavern suddenly ground to a halt at the sound of the late bounty hunter's name. Miranda became aware that all eyes were on the two of them and impassively buttered her bread, taking a daintily bite that she didn't taste at all. Beside her Jack lifted his legs to cross his feet over the edge of the table.

"Right in one," he said in that same cheerful voice. "'Seemed terribly upset when lovely Francesca here put a bullet into that hulk of a First Mate of his. Javier got it into his head to treat her in a... well, less than gentlemanly fashion, let's say. So, you can imagine that any lass bold enough to take a shot at Lonzo wouldn't hesitate to do the same to any fool enough to warrant it." Jack paused again. Miranda knew he was enjoying the undivided attention of his audience.

"Well?" someone called out -- the same huge man whose reported encounter with the goat had so shocked earlier. "What happened, man?" But Sparrow had taken a sudden interest in his fingernails. Hammer glared at the massive pirate.

"'E's talkin' t' _me_, 'e is!" the ugly man bellowed. The the single eye fixed on Jack again. "Well," he demanded loudly. "What happened, man?" Still caught up in the apparent examination of his fingers, Jack made no outward sign of having heard. Miranda nudged him gently.

"Hmm?" He blinked quizzically. Miranda nodded toward the silent patrons. "Oh! Too right, luv. Now, as I was saying..." His arm draped around her again, Jack glanced around the room. "Er... where was I?"

Hammer bared broken and blackening teeth in an awful grimace. "Vallasquar, Sparrow," he grated slowly. "You was tellin' me 'bout Vallasquar!"

"So I was," Jack said brightly. "Well, tis a pity I didn't exactly see the whole of it..." Disappointed groans from the assembled audience resounded. "What with it happening so quickly, and all," Jack went on, unpreturbed. "One moment, Capitain Javier had himself and armful of this sweet, demure little lass. And the next?" His hand rose, thumb and two fingers cocked at sharp angles to lazily describe an imaginary pistol. "She must have sweetly and demurely declined, because..." One finger curled inward as though pulling the trigger. Hammer blinked, appearing to mull this over.

"And when the smoke cleared, there was the late, woefully unlamented Javier Vallasquar flat on his back and still as a stump."

"Dead?" someone asked with a nervous giggle in the terse stillness that followed this declaration. Jack didn't look at the speaker, but trained his attention on Hammer.

"I've not seen anyone deader."

All around them the patrons of The Faithful Bride began muttering amongst themselves. Miranda heard snippets and bits of heated conversations as Hammer continued to stare between herself and Jack, chewing the inside of his cheek as he frowned in concentration.

"Can't be right," a deep voice murmured, to be answered by a heated whisper of, "You heard 'im. The bounty hunter's dead, 'e says." and "That bit of tail took him down, she did! Vallaquar's dead!"

Hammer was staring hard at Miranda now, and the look on his twisted face said that he wasn't as sure as he had been about pursuing this course of action.

"So, you see, mate. I couldn't just let you go rushing off into something you might regret later. She's got a bit of a temper, my Francesca does. Ah, I'll be taking that from you now, luv." Jack neatly plucked the bread knife from her fingers, placing it far from her reach by his booted feet. Miranda cut him an irritated glare. He merely grinned in response. "Couldn't leave you free to be sticking something sharp into me again, now could I?" Miranda favored him with her most 'haughty, aristocratic face'. "I didn't think so, luv. See, old boy?" Sparrow returned to Hammer. "A man would find himself in a world of pain trying to take up with this one without her say-so."

Hammer nodded absently. Still weighing his options, Miranda supposed. Then he beamed from ear to ear, a sly look that did make her shrink back this time.

"Aye," he rumbled. "But seein' as I don't mind a little pain now 'n again..." Hammer trailed off suggestively, running his tongue over narrow, sun-cracked lips. "An' maybe she doan neither, I'm thinkin'." He leered at Miranda, his horrible one eye sparkling lasciviously as it dipped down to her bodice. "It's eager I am ta be hoistin' my colors on this little prize. Two bells, Sparrow. I'll be havin' yer coin in two bells." With that the disfigured pirate spun and lurched away.

Miranda stared after him, trembling with revulsion, and, frankly, with terror. She shuddered violently, and exercised what remained of her self control in not burying her face in Sparrow's coat and sobbing herself sick.

"Well, that's gotten rid of him." Jack scowled after the departed Hammer, a disdainful curl to his lip, and with his hand at last emerging from beneath the gouged and marred tabletop. His flintlock was primed and ready. She wondered when he had done this. How long had the pistol been covertly aimed at that repulsive fiend? Noticing her look, Jack smirked as he rose to his feet, and uncocked his weapon.

"Never hurts to be cautious, luv. Come on." Shoving the pistol through his belt, Jack reached for her. "Wouldn't be prudent to still be here when he gets back, eh? We'll just have to brave the elements and wait someplace -- ah! Looks like we don't have to wait at all." Miranda followed the direction of his glance, feeling her heart lift as she spied Joshamee Gibbs standing just inside the doorway. Upon seeing Jack, the iron-haired man's face grew sly. Nodding briefly, he tapped a finger to the side of his nose. Jack dipped his head in return and drew Miranda to her feet.

"Shall we be on our way, then?"

The invitation couldn't have come soon enough to suit her. Miranda thought longingly of the cramped little cabin she shared with AnaMaria, and caught up her cloak behind her. Then, as a low groan rippled through the Faithful Bride, and she glanced around the tavern, Miranda wished for the plainest, most uninspired of dress to magically appear upon her body. It would seem that she had gained the undivided attention of most of the ruffians present.

Or, rather, the cut of her bodice had gained it for her. Honestly, why were these men behaving as though they'd never seen a woman's bosom before? Why, the other women darting here and there in the smoke-hazed room were far more immodest in apparel than she.

But upon further inspection, a good deal of these same women were currently eyeing her with active dislike -- even open hostility. Miranda shivered, then locked eyes with the most offensive of these: a fair haired woman whose face was probably quite stunning when it wasn't buried in layers of gaudy cosmetics and twisted into a snarl. Miranda lifted her chin and stared back with icy disinterest. Remarkably, the other looked away first. A small victory, and a rather petty one, as well. But any victory was a good one just then.

"Ain't you supposed to be waitin' on Hammer?"

Sparrow turned, blinkin innocently. "Now, why would I be wanting to do a thing like that, Tyler?"

Tyler, a dark skinned man with enormous shoulders, and ropes of hair that reached to his belt, looked back curiously. "You be breakin' your accord if you be leavin' now. Ole Hammer not be a happy man if he don't be gettin' the woman for his coin, what you promised." Several of the men nodded in agreement with this.

Jack pursed his lips. "Aye, that's true," he said seriously. "And he'd be in his rights to be so." Then he smiled in a self-satisfied way. "That is," he prefaced, holding up a finger. "He would -- if I'd ever agreed to his offer in the first place."

Tyler gaped like a freshly netted fish. "But you _did_ be sayin' it!" he exclaimed. "We was all hearin' you tellin' Hammer --"

"What you heard was me telling him he drove a hard bargain," Jack said piously. "Now, telling a man he drives a hard bargain is a long way from actually coming to an accord, eh? If the man with the coin decides not to wait for the word from the man with the wares, or if the man with the coin takes a mere observation for acquiescence as good as a handshake from the man with the wares... well, that's just plain the lookout of the man with the coin."

The big man puzzled his way through this convoluted stream of thought, nodding slowly as he reached the apparent end.

"Now you get?" Tyler's bench mate confided, not quite sotto voce. "Dis be why I doan be playin' cards wit him no more." Jack sketched an ironic half-bow to this, then offered his arm to Miranda. She eagerly grasped both it, and the chance to exit before her would-be purchaser returned. As they started for the door a collective sigh once again rippled through the tavern, and a voice called out, "Did she really do in Vallasquar?"

Jack's brows lifted. "That's what you heard me say, isn't it?" he returned glibly. More quiet muttering answered this. Then the huge pirate who had experienced the unfortunate adventure with the goat climbed ponderously to his feet.

"I don't supposed you'd think o' selling her to me instead, would you?" he asked with a look that was almost earnest.

Jack eyed him with a gentle smile. "Unfortunately, my friend... you're absolutely right. I wouldn't." And with that said, he steered Miranda out into the muddied streets.

A/N: And I'd like to thank everyone who reviewed, egged me on, nudged me, etc... I understand we're not supposed to do our thanks and shout-outs in the story pages anymore, but this site has been kind enough to give their authors their very own forums now. Mine is here: http/ w w w . fa n fic tion . net / f /433325 /

Just remove all the funky little spaces. (I can't believe they don't let you link to another part of their own site!) Or just check out the link in my profile.

So drop in and give me a yell, eh?

And, as always, let me know what you think!


	38. Chapter 34

Welcome to the Wonderful World of... A.U.-dom. Gentle readers, we have a sequel to our beloved PoTC: COTBP, and it's bloody brilliant! It also takes the world I've written thus far, and thrown it out the window of the nearest tall building. So here I am... plodding along on a path that will not be DMC compliant, and straining to keep from taking a warming pan to the head of the next Elizabeth Swann to cross my irritated path. Or Scruffington... er... Norrington, for that matter. (Focus, Outlaw, focus!)

As you'll see, this is another one of those patented "Really Bloody HUUUUGE" chapters of mine. They wouldn't shut up. They just wouldn't. They also demanded something of me that I refused to place in the last chapter, and therefore pouted until I caved in and gave them their own way. This monster is the result. As always, please let me know what you think. And now...

**Chapter 34**

Miranda emerged blinking into bright sunlight. The storm had indeed passed, just as Jack had predicted, but with the unfortunate effect of leaving the shoddy streets in worse condition than before. As she lifted her skirts, forced to perform a silly little hop to avoid puddled mud and effluvium, she wondered, should she see home again, if her laundress would pack up and give notice at the sight of her mistress' garments.

"Come on, now," Jack coaxed, picking up his pace. "Let's not dawdle, shall we?" Mr. Gibbs moved up on her other side.

"No rush, Jack. Gorsse showed hisself soon as the rain stopped." The Quartermaster's eyes twinkled with humor. "Seein' as how he was lookin' a mite delicate, if yer takin' my meaning, he won't be wantin' ta take hisself off anywheres too far from his bed."

Jack acknowledged this with a grunt. "Did he spot you?"

"Don't think so. 'Sides, he wouldn't know me from Adam ta' begin with."

"You're the man who knows the man," Jack said bitterly. "Everyone in this cesspool knows you, mate." Miranda looked at him, finding the Captain's eyes darting here and there, his mouth a tight line. Noticing her, he smiled in a way that rang terribly false to her mind. "Are they all in place?" he asked next.

"Everyone who needs to be," was Mr. Gibbs' cryptic reply. "An' the rest know to keep their ears open. Warned 'em, I did, not to mix it up with Pickham's boys, or to go climbin' too far into a barrel while her La'yship was ashore."

Miranda glanced between the two. "Is there something I should know, gentlemen?"

Jack traded a look with Gibbs, then away, peering at the buildings ahead as though trying to see around corners. Despite his Quartermaster's assurance, he continued to hurry them along.

Something was off. Something was definitely off. Miranda felt her stomach clench into knots.

"No need to be frettin' yer head, ma'am," Gibbs answered instead. "We're just arrangin' it so's me 'n the lads'll have an eye on you whiles you n' Gorsse reach an accord. Didn't think we'd be leavin' you ta' fend on yer own, did you?" He was trying to be so kindly and reassuring that Miranda felt the Gordian knot in her belly loosen just a touch.

"But...' She frowned at Jack. "But you are not staying?"

"Gorsse does know me, you'll remember." Jack's voice was terse. "And he's got no cause for harboring any tender feelings where your humble servant is concerned. Wouldn't do to have the good reverend predisposed against you, now, would it?"

The knot clenched again. "I see," she murmured weakly as all of her nerves returned in full force. What a strange thing to realize just how very much she had come to rely upon the presence of this man. To be sure, his crew had shown nothing but kind regard, and there were several that she'd grown quite fond of. But the knowledge that she would be without their Captain at her side at this, of all times, was a bitter draught to swallow. Then Jack looked at her as if seeing for the first time the effect of his words. His look softened and he slowed his steps to a more seemly pace.

"No worries, my girl. You'll have 'im wrapped around your little finger in no time... _charming_ as you are." Miranda winced at this reminder of her vacuously penned letter. She laughed nervously.

"Or trying to purchase me, perhaps?"

His face grew pensive. "Well, there is that, of course. Speaking of which, have you ever, in your travels; had occasion to make the acquaintance of a man by the name of Eleazar Hammond?"

Miranda thought that Mr. Gibbs might have flinched at the name. She chewed at her lip, sifting through the ledgers and lists in her mind. "Not that I recall, but that doesn't mean I could not have. Why?"

"Oh, nothing important," Jack said with a casualness she thought overplayed. "One of my flights of whimsey, really. Mr. Gibbs." He looked over her head, speaking in the rough, clipped tones usually reserved for commands. "We'll need to keep a weather eye on the harridan."

"I beg your pardon!" Stung, Miranda dug in her heels, and wrenched her arm free. But the two men continued to trade hard looks, faces somber.

"Aye. I'll be lookin' after that meself." Gibbs nodded firmly, then once more to Miranda. "Ma'am," he said, and slipped away. She stared after him until he disappeared around a corner. With a sigh, Sparrow took her elbow, urging her onward.

"The _Hadrian_," he began wearily, glancing about as the street gradually filled with those leaving shelter in the wake of the rainstorm, "is one of those ships that I mentioned not being on the best of terms with. It was a Ship of the Line before it got taken off by the Ivory Coast. A crank ship, the _Hadrian_ is. More like as to roll in a good swell as not, but the captain was so smitten with the idea of commandeering one of the King's pretty little boats that he won't hear any different. So those who have had the misfortune to crew on it took to calling it the _Harridan_ instead." He chuckled ruefully. "Only behind his back, mind you. A man like that doesn't take well to slurs against himself or his ship."

Miranda ducked her head. "Oh," she said, shamefaced at her outburst. "And would this have --" She paused as Jack released her elbow and wrapped his arm around her shoulders instead. Pulling her close to his side as a group of men passed, all of them eying her avidly. " -- have anything to do with this Eleazar Hammond person?" This question only earned her a shrug, and a suggestion that amounted to hardly more than a condescending request that she not worry her pretty little head over it. Miranda bristled, an angry retort springing up.

"You've other things to concern you, lady," Sparrow admonished. "Gorsse may have a weakness for the fairer sex, but he's canny where the money's concerned. You'll need your wits when dealing with him. Now remember: Don't give him substantial coin before he's done his job. If you're to be showing him what's inside that ring, then get him indoors first. But mind who's there with you, and don't let him get you alone. And whatever you do, don't mention any good will you might have for me."

Miranda frowned up at him. "And would you care to suggest anything else that I've already considered, Captain Sparrow?" Her tart tone only seemed to amuse him.

"There's that steel," he remarked. "And it would do you well to remember that that's what you're made of. Just don't let it go to far, now." He shook his head. "Like to stop my heart to hear you speak to Hammer that way. He's killed for less, you realize."

No, she hadn't. A chill rushed through her. "Now you tell me."

Jack squeezed her arm. "Just surprised me, that's all. And if it surprised me, think of what it did to him. I don't think anyone -- man or woman -- has had the nerve to speak that way to him since the last time Hammer saw the world through two eyes. Not to his face, at any rate."

"He seemed to find it entertaining," she protested meekly. Jack's step faltered.

"Aye," he admitted, subdued. "That he did. That's what's got me worried."

The cold fist moved to squeeze at her heart She froze in place, forcing him to stop as well. "Hammer... is Eleazar Hammond?" Oh, how could she have failed to see the similarity in names?

He didn't answer. He didn't need to; the truth was there in his eyes. "And Hammond is the captain of the _Hadrian_, is he not? Jack, why did you ask if I knew him? What is it that you are not telling me?"

He appeared to struggle with himself, then shrugged in a helpless gesture. "Hammer. He's... Something's off here. I think he's aware that you're not one of the local strumpets, but..." Jack spread his hands. "You don't know him. Trust me, he's up to something. Hammer offering that kind of coin for a wench -- no offense -- when there's dozens about that'll at least be counted on to pretend they're not repulsed by him?" He shook his head. "Unlikely, if you were to ask me. I think..." He paused, then heaved a great sigh. "I think he's recognized you, luv. Maybe from your sailing on a ship he crewed on, or perhaps from someplace else, but it's known he worked the merchant fleets before jumping ship for the Sweet Trade. You and your family weren't exactly strangers to life on the sea."

It was entirely too probable that he was in the right. "But... but how can you be certain? He hardly looked at my face the entire time."

"True" Jack stepped closer. "But when he did... " He trailed of meaningfully.

"So you believe it's ransom he's after, and not... that?" Miranda shuddered.

"Oh, it's _that_ he'll be after as well," Jack said sourly. "But if he does know you for a Warringford, he'll be thinking your family will pay well to get you back. Alive, if not unharmed. Now we'll have to get you past him as well." He took a breath, then made a face. "Maybe we should have dressed you as an old salt after all, eh? Hoist on me own petard for wanting you to get all played up. Come on." Miranda remained still, staring as the unthinkable wormed its way into her brain. Jack Sparrow was gregarious to a fault. She'd never seen him pass up an opportunity to strike up a friendly conversation, even in the most inconvenient of circumstances. But in the tavern he had conducted himself with the one-eyed pirate in a manner quite removed from his usual ease. His behavior was more that of a man handling a very much alive, very venomous snake. Coupling this with his overly wary behavior out in the streets, and Miranda felt her blood turn to ice.

"You're afraid of him," she whispered. "You're... oh, Jack, what if that terrible man... he'll be furious if he finds out you've tricked him, won't he? He'll hunt for both of us, and it won't take him long to return from his ship. "

"Now, you're just borrowing trouble," he pointed out, gripping her shoulders. "And all for nothing. Hammer won't be getting his hooks into you, lass. Not with me and mine seeing to it he won't." He chafed her arms, favoring her with a smile that was no doubt meant to set her at ease. To soothe her into believing herself safe. "And I _am_ seeing to it, lady. Know that." He had misunderstood, however. It was not for herself she feared.

"But it's _you_ he'll blame for it," she cried. And suddenly, her mind was flooded with dreadful visions of horrible violence, and of those kind hands that had guided and comforted fluttering helplessly, unable to staunch the flow of blood that would drain from his body if what she dreaded should come to pass. Or of the brilliant, vibrant darkness of his eyes left fixed and vacant, emptied of life. "It is you he'll seek revenge on for thwarting him! Oh, Jack... Please, I couldn't bear it if you --"

"Miranda!"

Though his tone was not sharp, it brought her back to herself. His eyes glittered strangely as they stared into hers, reflecting startlement and other emotions she couldn't dare put name to. He opened his mouth to speak, and frowned as a sound of many men laughing raucously drew nearer. Jack angled his head toward some point behind her. "Over there, darlin'. Just for a moment."

'Over there' proved to be yet another filthy alleyway reeking of refuse and waste. The dry, clinical part of her noted that she had become woefully familiar with such settings in the past weeks. Still, it afforded a brief shelter from the prying eyes of passers by. Her companion scanned the farthest end of the alley, seeing to their relative solitude, then whirled abruptly on her, making her flinch as the ropes of his hair fanned out around him, to settle sinuously down around his shoulders. One hand lifted, a finger waggling under her nose.

"You..." he began in a choked voice. "You..." Then Miranda was crushed to him. Pulled into a rough embrace against a body that trembled violently.

No, not trembled; shook... with laughter. He was laughing at her. Miranda stiffened, causing him to release his hold. But his face remained only inches from her own.

"And they call me daft," Jack muttered himself. Then, "With all else that's going on around you, you go and put me at the top of your list of worries? Not that I mind the sentiment, mind you," he added hastily. There was a twinkle in his eyes now that brought a flush to her skin. "In fact, I heartily approve. I'll encourage it, even. I applaud anyone with kindly thoughts of my humble self remaining sound and hale." His knuckle brushed lightly over her cheek. "But old Jack has been looking after himself for a long time, now. Probably since you were still a wee babe in nappies. And though he may look a fright, Hammer's hardly the worst of obstacles thrown us."

No, Miranda reflected. That would be their 'not-so-sleepy-friend', as Jack was wont to call the powerful creature that shadowed her. And there was Edward Dunnthorpe to consider as well. But even though only days prior had seen her limbs locked in place, and her breath frozen in her lungs, absurdly, Eleazar Hammond had become a more immediate, tangible threat.

"Say that he is of no moment," she said, staring deeply into Sparrow's eyes. "And I will believe you." Jack straightened, blinking. A deep furrow creased his brow. He glanced away, almost guiltily, then met her gaze with one both hooded and troubled. He said nothing, and Miranda wondered if it might not have been better if he'd lied outright. Then he leaned in, drawing so near that, once more, Miranda fancied she could see amber flecks in the kohl-lined darkness of his eyes.

_No, not amber,_ she thought. _Gold._ _Like the gold hidden in his smile_.

"What will it take," he asked in a low, steady voice, "to ease Milady's disquiet enough to get back to the task at hand? Hammer's head on a silver platter? Dozens of my men bristling with firearms surrounding you on all sides to escort you -- would that be enough?" But he smiled to soften the words, showing a brief glimpse of that hidden gold.

" You and I," Miranda said with conviction. "Aboard the _Black Pearl_, and with this island set to our stern. Nothing less." To think that the most notorious pirate vessel in the region should represent a haven, and the man who captained it the very strength that bore her up! A fortnight ago she would have deemed such things impossible.

A fortnight ago she hadn't known Jack Sparrow.

"But in the absence of such immediate possibilities," she continued, amazed at her own boldness. "I would like to get this terrible business over with, as you've asked. Preferably before we are run to ground by that hideous acquaintance of yours."

Jack also appeared taken aback by her utterance. "Well, a body can't argue with that, can they?" he wondered quietly with a slow shake of his head. "Can't argue that at all. We'll just get right to it, then. Soon as your 'terrible business' is done, we'll be off." Miranda nodded. It was the best that could be hoped for, she supposed, and the sooner accomplished, the sooner the great dark ship could carry the both of them beyond the reach of any here set on harm. She turned, believing Jack ready to lead her onward.

He held her in place, still searching her eyes. "We'll just get right to it," he repeated thickly, and then his voice dropped to a whisper. "In a moment, Miranda." His head lowered, the jutting brim of his hat brushing against her hair, and a thrill shot through her limbs when his lips, so very close to hers, breathed, "_Admired Miranda..._"

Miranda had only begun to wonder just where the bones in her knees had taken themselves off to this time, and then his mouth was on hers, and there was fire in her veins, searing through the ice. Before she knew it, her fingers tangled greedily in his hair as her mind went blissfully, jubilantly numb to all else. What did it matter now that they stood in some rank Tortugan alleyway while men and women of the worst repute laughed and argued and plotted nefarious doings all around them? Jack held her, and suddenly there was nothing to fear in this place. Jack kissed her, and the summer gardens of Versailles could not hold more magic for now her than this wretched plot of earth.

There was nothing perfunctory about the touch of these lips, some distant part of her recognized, nor a brutal compulsion for her obedience. Rather they persuaded. They enchanted. Without a word they asked:_ do you like this? And what about this, and this?_ And when Jack drew away, leaving her bereft and trembling with an aborted protest hammering at her throat, those wonderfully mobile lips parted into a beguiling smile mirrored in gold flecked eyes.

_Did you enjoy that_, his eyes asked. _Do you want more? Well, here I am, Miranda. Here I am._

Once she feared that, should she reach for him, it would be like thrusting her hands into open flames. But could any imaginary fire consume her more completely, or burn as greatly as the ones that raged in her now? Once she had feared this, the moment in which he would require answer of her.

Now she marveled at what a simple thing it was. Easy as brushing away the strands of hair that drifted into his eyes to tangle in his lashes. As necessary as the drawing of her very next breath, Miranda took his face in her hands and drew him to her. One gentle urging of that dearest face. One barely audible whimper that should have humiliated her, and nothing else was needed. Jack kissed her, and now he did so with an eagerness that dizzied her, and with a sigh that became a moan torn from deep within him.

No questions in this kiss. Nothing tentative or retiring. Jack was velvet and gold surging into her. Retreating only to return again and again. Unfogged, unsoftened by any influence of spirits or mad, reckless flight, this kiss drove sharply inside of her and wove itself into her being.

_Lost_, a small voice mourned. _Lost_...

Then the small voice was gone. Swept away like a cry on the wind. Carried off by the fire in her blood and his taste on her lips. The taste of life itself. Of a fierce and wild joy more intoxicating than the most powerful drug. He tasted of freedom and Miranda drank him in with no more hesitance. No masks to hide her now. With no disguises left, Miranda felt stripped raw and laid bare before him with all of her weakness, her rebellious, wanton desires exposed, and for the first time in so very, very long, was not afraid.

Without warning her lips were abandoned. A ragged gasp flew from her as his oh-so-clever mouth sought out the tender skin just beneath her jaw, and as the beginnings of something so wondrous and terrifying arose inside of her, it was impossible to believe herself still capable of thought. And when the hot brush of his mouth stroked the length of her throat and the force within her soared to a tension almost unbearable, it was beyond comprehension that she could still stand at all. Miranda threw back her head, willing anything he wished of her. Anything, so long as this moment never end. Her hands clenched in his hair and clothing as his name breathlessly escaped in a low cry echoed by his hoarse whisper against her skin. She shivered, pulling him closer. Closer.

An unearthly shriek battered her senses, seeming to send her heart vaulting into her mouth as Jack spun away, one arm lifting to defend himself from an assailant that his body hid from her vision.

"So _this_ is the '_ve-e-ery_ _important business_' you was goin' on about?" a woman's shrill voice accused. "Throwin' me off for some jumped-up laced mutton? Oooh, you're a fine one, you are, Jack Sparrow! Mouthin' your fancy words and playin' your 'igh-toned ways at me, then off to the first wagtail to show you 'er wares, you were!"

Miranda peered over his shoulder at the enraged creature. This proved to be a mistake on her part as it brought her into the sight of the elaborately -- and impossibly red -- coifed woman. From the manner of her dress it was an easy thing to discern her profession, and from her words, it wasn't difficult to determine that this woman had a more than passing familiarity with Captain Sparrow. "An' don't you think you'll cozen up at MY pitch when 'ee's done with you," the woman snapped, pointing a sharp nailed finger at Miranda's face. Then, those sharp nailed fingers reached out for her, curling like talons. "You'll not be cheatin' ME out of what's mine, you poxy little --"

"Scarlett!" Jack barked, capturing her wrists, silencing the fury in mid-rant. "This is hardly the time to discuss this," he continued in reasonable, even tones. Now, if you'd be so kind, we can take this up again when --" But he'd underestimated the depths of the woman's anger. Scarlett turned on him immediately, wrenching free only to thrust her powdered and contorted face into his.

"No more of your sly, silver-tongued bilge, you bleedin', two faced, rum gagging scab! I hope they 'ang you, I do, and I'm of 'alf a mind to loan 'em the rope!" She lunged, swinging her arm. Jack danced away from this blow then blocked the next. With another screech, the woman drew back and kicked hard. Miranda knew it had connected when he lurched forward with a strangled exclamation.

Satisfied, Scarlett made a show of dusting her hands, and nodded proudly. Spinning on her heel, she flounced away, leaving Jack doubled over in her wake.

"At least they've fixated on some other part of me to abuse,"

he muttered, rubbing at his shin. Apparently, the thick leather of his boots didn't provide sufficient protection from an angry harlot's sharp toed shoes. "And I'll have the matching marks to show for it. But I'll have you know that I did _not_ deserve that."

'_They_?' Miranda thought. This was followed by a flash of that dreadful sensation she's experience last night when spying the rouge on his lips. "Indeed," she asked before she could stop herself, though managing to sound light. "Are you certain of that?" Jack gave her a wry look, stooping to fetch his hat -- when had it fallen? -- and clapped it firmly onto his head.

"All right there?" His voice was guarded, and as before, strands of hair tangled in his lashes and mustache. "I know she gave you a bad start, and all. I'd imagine finding yourself set upon by angry strumpets and Hammer's angelic countenance isn't quite how you'd thought you'd be spending your day."

It was, to say the least, a grand understatement. But the hunger in his flushed, darkly beautiful face caused an unseemly giggle to die unvoiced in a throat that still burned from his touch. Miranda smoothed the hair from his eyes and mouth, tucking the unruly lock behind his ear. Frustrated emotion made a roiling pit of her stomach while the remains of that wondrous power now skittered unpleasantly about under her skin, and only one path allowed her to ease the discomfort of it. She found that she could not stop touching him.

Brazen. Shamefully and appallingly forward of her to continue to pet at him so. To have clung to him in such a manner. Was it any wonder that Scarlett took her for one of her own miserable profession? Miranda looked away, unable to meet his eyes. But neither could she keep from touching him, and her hand drifted once more to smooth the long ropes of hair that she'd never allowed herself to imagine could feel so soft.

Jack's body swayed, shifting uneasily from side to side. "Come on. We should go."

Miranda knew that she should at least make an effort to take note of the turns and streets their steps lead them through, should there be a need to find her own way back to the dock. It was impossible. Try though she might, her eyes only returned time and again to the man at her side, and each covert glimpse flooded her with waves of shame that warred with other more distressing emotions. Not unexpectedly, it didn't take long for the pirate to notice. When he spoke, it was with a peculiar blandness at odds with the stony set of his face.

"Was there something you were wanting to say, lady?"

'_Something_?' Oh, there were several '_somethings_.' All of them wildly inappropriate for both time and setting.

"I suppose you're thinking I shouldn't have done that." he said.

Miranda chewed at her lip and strove to shift her attention away from the man.

"But you'll have to admit it worked like a charm for taking your mind off things."

These words impacted like a stone fist to the stomach. Miranda stumbled, remembering a not so distant past. "Another 'last touch'?" she spat. Oh, humiliation upon humiliation! -- to fling herself like a common bawdy woman at one who would use her so. "'For art's sake,' wasn't it? That was how you phrased it before, as I recall. Oh, bravo, Sir. Very well played, indeed. For a moment I truly believed..." Not wishing to abase herself further, she bit back the telling words that hovered on her lips. From the corner of her eye she saw Sparrow look her way.

"Is that so," he said in that flat, noncommittal tone, and halted in the middle of the street. "Truly believed, eh?" He scowled, face tight with anger. "Well, then you won't mind if I wax dogmatic on a few points myself, will you?" In spite of his treatment of her thus far, Miranda felt a surge of sudden panic as Sparrow's hand lifted. But he only raised a single finger into the air.

"One: I believe that was a bloody stupid thing I just did back there, because, two," A second finger joined its mate. " I was the one who, barely minutes prior, said that you didn't need anything more to distract or delay you, and then went and imposed myself upon your person, though fully knowing better, but it just goes to show that, three: I think we both know that 'art's sake' had nothing to do with what just happened, and that it would have been an even greater crime to let such an opportune moment pass, but..." He paused long enough to draw breath, and to wave four fingers toward the street ahead. "Four: this is the last thing that either of us should be letting our minds stray to, because the Fiddle and Fife, where Gorsse hangs his hat, is right around that very corner there, and _that's_ what Milady needs to be bending her not inconsiderable brain towards. Not wasting it on deciphering the dubious intentions of her humble servant."

Miranda took in this verbal flood, relief sweeping over her as she understood his anger to be directed at himself. Though perhaps it would not be right to make him languish in too much self-blame. Or to allow him to continue in the belief that he held her so enthralled as to be unable to think rationally, true as that calamitous idea may yet prove to be.

"Does the good Captain -- whom I must remind is neither humble, nor my servant -- think me incapable of bending my 'not inconsiderable brain' to two distinctly separate issues?" Miranda reflected that she was becoming much better at this. Her voice barely quavered, and she even managed an arch little smile. He stared hard, then exhaled. The tense set of his shoulders relaxed.

"Any man with half a wit for keeping his bollocks intact knows there's only one answer for that," he returned in a mutter.

Miranda frowned at the word. "Indeed. Then for the sake of your intact... bollocks, wasn't it? -- I shan't demand another from you." Again, his close scrutiny. His lips twitched, the corners of his eyes crinkling. "And your intentions. Are they indeed so terribly dubious, Captain Sparrow?" she asked with a flutter of her lashes. Unexpectedly this sobered him. Jack sighed, reaching up to adjust the set of his hat.

"I... I don't know, lass." he admitted. "Something else we'll have to talk about later, I suppose. And Miranda?" Jack took her hand, raising it to press his lips first to her palm, then to the inside of her wrist. "These conversations of ours? Personally, I don't think they'll keep much longer. Do you?"

He had been right after all. She couldn't even form a coherent thought when he insisted upon doing something like this._ Damn the man._ Miranda dumbly shook her head, then marshaled herself. Or, at least, tried to.

"No." This time her voice was horribly, breathlessly fatuous. Part of her sincerely wished to crawl beneath a rock at the sound of it. "No, I don't believe they will."

"Ah." the distraction of his lips moved over her palm again. The warmth of his breath and the brush of his mustache sent bolts of sensation shooting through her. Perhaps this was what it felt like to be lightning-struck. "Well then, the sooner the better, to my mind."

_Heaven help me!_ All the old fears rose up anew, as fresh now as in the time that followed her wedding. It was worse than madness to behave so with one such as this. What would Sparrow do when he found that she could not give him what he expected? What might this man -- who was, after all, a man like any other -- be capable of if he suspected her of toying with him?

"Jack," she began. "Captain, I..."

"It'll have to keep, luv," he said, suddenly alert. "Come on. Take my arm, now."

What..?"

"Now, luv!" Though quiet, there was an edge to his tone. Miranda did as bidden just as Sparrow started them for the indicated corner. She heard a booming voice from ahead and wondered if this might be the reason for his abrupt change of mood.

The booming voice grew louder, and then, rounding the corner there came... a beard.

_No_, she amended immediately, _a Beard!_ Miranda stared. It was as if a hedgerow had sprouted legs and learned to walk. Never in all of her years had she beheld a hirsute growth of such immense proportions! The Beard was vast. It jutted, coiled, and bristled, and seemed to begin almost where the bushy eyebrows left off. At one time it must have been flaming red before the passage of years had strewn it liberally with gray.

The owner of said Beard was a man who could have easily seen eye-to-eye with young Samuel Bottoms. Only this man would have made two of the dear lad. Said owner swaggered his ponderous way towards herself and Captain Sparrow, clad in an outlandish array of worn finery that had clearly been pilfered from men not of the same generous dimensions, and with a bright haired, brightly clad woman clinging to his arm.

"So I says to 'im," the man was saying to his hanger-on. (Though Miranda was hard pressed to discern the precise location of his mouth.) "I says 'if ye've got so much fight left in ye that ye doan know when yer done, I'll run ye 'round the masts 'til ye've..." The Beard lifted as the man spotted their presence. He fell silent, glowering at Miranda's companion. Then, the Beard hitched up, revealing an unmistakable smirk as the fellow ran a thick fingered hand over his wealth of facial hair. Miranda sensed more than saw Sparrow's aborted reach for his own chin. Then, the Captain casually draped an arm around her, fingers toying with the curled lock at her temple. Miranda shivered.

The big man noticed her, eyes moving over her face with seeming interest. Inevitably, his gaze traveled somewhat southward and remained there. He sighed lustily, causing a sour look to appear on the face the clinging blond. Bestowing a venomous glare upon both Miranda and Sparrow, she threw back her shoulders, emphasizing the daring cut of her bodice in an attempt to regain the wandering attention of her fickle paramour.

"Come on, Captain," she wheedled. "You haven't finished tellin' me 'ow you beat that snooty Dutch bloke down."

Jack snorted as they drew nearer to the pair. This seemed to prove the magical element that pried the other man's eyes from Miranda's décolletage.

"Sparrow," he rumbled darkly.

"Pickham," Jack replied as they passed. "Giselle," he added with a nod to the blond.

"Tiberius," whined Giselle, tugging at the beefy arm. Miranda was aware of Pickham's gaze on her back as an itch between her shoulder blades, and wished that Sparrow would move them along at a swifter pace.

"I doan suppose..." Pickham's voice drawled slowly.

"You couldn't afford her," Jack called without looking back. He continued his measured steps until the sound of Giselle's coaxing voice faded. Then with a darted glance over his shoulder, he drew Miranda to the corner wall of a building that looked to be comprised mainly of ancient barrel staves. His back to the wall, Jack patted briskly at his pockets.

"Ah!" Fishing through whatever else he might have carried with him, the pirate withdrew a small, familiar object that most certainly did not belong there.

"Captain Sparrow!" Miranda protested. Really, the man was absolutely incorrigible.

"Hmm?" With this absent utterance, he angled her little mirror -- which Miranda distinctly recalled having placed in her medicine case before they'd departed for shore -- in such a way as to allow him to see around the corner.

"Was there a reason why you couldn't simply ask to borrow my property?" she huffed.

"Oh, I'm sure there was, darlin', but I can't say as I recall what it was just now. There." That feral smile bent one corner of his mouth. He pulled her before him, tilting the mirror to show one particular table beneath a faded striped awning. "That's the one," Jack said with a note of triumph. "Thaddeus Gorsse: Scholar. Theologian. Drunkard. Lecher. And as of this moment... your newest, and very dearest old friend."

Taking the mirror from his hand, Miranda studied the image reflected therein. It was almost anticlimactic. The man whom Jack assured her would be their best hope for answers was a pallid, sour faced fellow with a turn to his mouth that suggested he might have just chewed a lemon. Dark hair that looked none to clean was pulled sharply back from his harsh face, and his equally dark clothing must have been chosen to imply his former profession. Gorsse toyed aimlessly with a great plumed pen, staring at his surroundings with a look of towering resentment. Miranda wondered if the source of his ill humor was to be found in the fact that there was nobody presently clamoring to make use of his services. Or perhaps, she thought when seeing the man wearily draw a hand over his eyes, it was as Mr. Gibbs had said when describing the defrocked priest as appearing 'a mite delicate'. The weight of the purse in her skirt pocket reminded her that she could most assuredly gain and hold his undivided attention. But gaining his attention would also mean that she would have to face this forbidding personage alone.

"Got him?" Jack asked, tilting her hand to point the mirror elsewhere. "Good. Now, if you'll look this way." And Miranda felt a surge of relief. Samuel Bottoms was reflected back to her, arm wrestling with the heavily muscled Kursar. And best of all, AnaMaria stood close by the two. Her face set in a wide grin, and with her hair tucked up under a large, shell decorated hat, Ani was engaged in animated conversation with others that had gathered around the straining pair. Miranda thought she saw coins exchange hands. There looked to be a spot of lively wagering going on.

"And here." The mirror shifted, showing the apparently drowsing form of Tearlach, his sandaled feet crossed atop his table, and chin on hand. Beside him, Duncan chatted amiably with a person Miranda didn't recognize, while Ladbroc and Hamish were amusing themselves with what looked to be dice.

"And over here..." The mirror moved again, and now Miranda saw the little Bo'sun, Marty, standing on a tabletop. His attention was currently wrapped up in the woman who... Miranda looked again.

"Goodness. She is quite tall, isn't she?"

"That's how he likes his ladies," Jack explained.

"I see. And she truly does have very large... eyes."

"Minx," Jack murmured... fondly? Then, "So just have a look around. Said you weren't going to have to lump it alone, didn't I?"

And he had meant it. Miranda blinked furiously against the prickling at the corners of her eyes. Then she drew a hissing breath. "Jack, I think... it looks as though he is about to leave!" Jack swore, crowding against her to peer into the mirror. The sour faced Gorsse had thrown down his quill with a look of disgust, and now brusquely gathered his papers.

"Well, what's stopping you, girl? Get out there!"

Miranda froze, mouth dry, and her mind utterly blank. "What do I do?" she squeaked.

Jack groaned. "Just walk, luv. Go to the middle of the street." His hands pushed at her back, urging her forward. "Act like you're looking for someone." Miranda had no choice but to go along.

"But --" she tried to protest.

"And remember," Jack stage whispered, cutting her off. "You don't know me!"

"Jack!" But when Miranda looked back, Sparrow had vanished.

**  
A/N:** Here's where I'll have to leave off this time. Thanks to all who have stuck with me throughout this monster saga, and I hope to do better by you all. As is woefully the case with me lately, all whoopsies you find here are the fault of yours truly. I really should behave myself and ask for Beta-ing again. Bad Outlaw! No Sparrow treats. (Whimper...) Off I go to wrestle with the beast that will eventually be known as Chapter 35. (Sigh...) Please review!


	39. Chapter 35

To quote a renouned Hobbit of my acquaintance, 'Well, I'm back.' I know it's been a very, very long time, but I would like to thank all of you who have read and reviewed, and otherwise kept the faith. Having survived a raging case of writer's block that met headlong with RL, and a depressing lack of internet access, the Outlaw is back in the saddle again.

But enough about me. Please enjoy the offering below, and lemme know what you think!

******Chapter 35**

"Jack... Jack!" Heart pounding, Miranda stared helplessly into the space that had, only a moment ago, been occupied by the form of her erstwhile companion. "_Jack_!" she hissed again. But his escape was complete. Not even a fleeting glimpse of the tails of a red headscarf, or a tattered length of striped cloth vanishing 'round a corner. Perhaps he truly was part Djinn after all.

A swift glance proved that the once cleric was indeed preparing to take himself off to whatever rat hole Gorsse chose to inhabit. AnaMaria was gesturing at the man with urgent nods, while Mr. Cotton's parrot descended in a mad flurry of color. Shifting nervously from foot to foot from its perch above the First Mate's table, the bird bobbed its head, fixing Miranda with a pale eye.

Wonderful. Now even the ship's pets were demanding her action. She stepped forward, one hand lifted in a half hearted attempt to gain the man's attention. Gorsse's back was to her, though, and her gesture went unseen. As she debated the wisdom of calling loudly for the aid of someone versed in proto-Hellenistic script, Mr. Cotton's parrot took matters into its own hands. Or beak, in this case, as the bird chose that precise moment to give voice to a great, raucous whistle, the meaning of which was unmistakable.

"Oh-ho!" AnaMaria cried in gruff, surprisingly masculine tones. "Look at the cut of _that_ one's jib, mates!" All around the square, heads turned. The men of the _Pearl_ began to hoot and catcall. Their noise was joined by other patrons, and soon, all number of improper suggestions filled the air.

"Let's have a better look, girlie," called a portly fellow that Miranda didn't recognize.

"Aye." Mr. Tearlach awoke from his supposed nap, waggling his brows with an overplayed leer. "Shift yer cargo, dearie. Show us yer larboard side!"

"View's a fine sight from here," a ragged youth protested. His eyes were most decidedly not on her face. Sam Bottoms looked thoroughly abashed, but at a nudge from Mr. Kursar, began to pat his hand atop the table.

"Don't be shy, now. C'mon 'n sit with us -- I even just washed only a fortnight back!" The lad was flushed to his hairline. Miranda was certain that a similar hue now marked her own skin, but it wasn't hard to deduce the reason for calling such offensive attention to herself; Thaddeus Gorsse, intrigued by the commotion, had paused in his departure. Miranda saw him glance over his shoulder, then slowly turn. For a brief moment their eyes met, Gorsse's indifferent gaze becoming intrigued, then before long, as intrusive and unsavory as any she'd yet received today. Had they not all of them looked their fill? Miranda wished she could scream this aloud, but could not deny that she now had the defrocked priest's full attention.

Unfortunately, she had the attention of others as well. "Oi! -- we saw 'er first, we did!" the portly man cried. His compatriots all bellowed in indignant agreement. "She'll be sittin' wif us! "

"Oh, no she won't!" And the shouting match began in earnest, with the crew of the _Pearl_, AnaMaria included, growing more coarse and vile in their insults to the rival men. Now both sides were on their feet, with Sam and Kursar making a slow approach to counter the steps of the portly fellow and his friend. Gorsse watched with sneering amusement, but made no further note of Miranda herself. Not until a new voice called out. One that made her stomach lurch in dismay.

What in the world was he thinking? Was it not he who had expressed the need to remain unseen by their quarry? Then why, oh, why was Jack Sparrow now stepping into the street, weaving and swaying his way towards her with the wobbly gait of a drunkard far gone in his cups, and a look in his eyes suggesting that she might be the next bottle of choice?

"Sorry, gen'lemen," the Captain slurred loudly. "Bu' yon fair lassie already has a prior engagement."

"Wif 'oo?" one of her would-be paramours demanded, placing himself in Sparrow's path. Jack lurched to a halt, leaning back on his heels to frown tipsily at the fellow.

"That is an excellent question, mate," he began, and sensing what was to follow, Miranda groaned inwardly. "Who indeed has drawn so delectable a creature as she to this very place at this very moment? Could it be Destiny, perhaps? Fate? And do we not, all of us, have an appointed assignation with this most inescapable and irresistible of entities? Whom amongst us has not oft pondered this very thought in our own lives, gen'lmen? Do not each of us, by means manifest and mysterious, find we must all approach this most ominous somebody, wondering whose face it might wear when at last we arrive? " Jack looked about the region at large, receiving nothing but blank stares in return. Miranda couldn't blame them; she was dazed as well from this show of wordmanship. Jack patted his confronter daintily on the shoulder. "You keep chewin' on it, mate," he mock-whispered. "I'm sure a sharp lad such as yourself'll have no trouble puzzling it out. Eventually. Now, if you'd be so kind, the lass grows impatient." And swaying deftly around the other man, Jack approached with mincing, staggering steps. Arms spread, hands aloft, he smiled as if to say _Here I am, luv_. Which, appropriately enough, was almost the very next thing out of the pirate's mouth.

"Hullo, hullo," he drawled, circling her slowly. "Were you lost, little lamb? Couldn't find your way? Well..." He stopped before her, and with a lazy, toothy grin, drew intrusively -- and offensively -- close. "Here I am, luv. Ol'e Jack'll show you just where it is you'll need to be goin'."

Miranda had no way to respond to this. She was too busy trying not to gag. Oh, Heaven -- his _breath_! As horrific as the night prior, and almost twice as strong. Had he chewed his way through an entire larder's store of garlic in the brief time since he'd left her sight? Miranda turned her head this way and that, eyes welling with tears of sheer self-defense. Through blurred vision she glimpsed Thaddeus Gorsse looking on. The defrocked priest's pale face was pinched with outrage as he glared at the pirate Captain. Then Jack pushed his face even closer, and Miranda fought the urge to bolt outright.

"Tears of joy? Ah -- the fairer sex _hhhas_ always _hhhad_ cause to rejoice when I've sailed into port. But I'm flattered, luv. Touched, even. _Hhhonestly_." It was too much. Miranda raised her hands to push him away. Sparrow only caught them in his, bringing them to his breast as he turned their bodies, placing Gorsse at her back. "That's got his attention," he whispered, mercifully angling his mouth away.

"Oi -- Sparrow!" the heavyset man bellowed. "No fair you jumpin' in ta steal our claim!"

"Yeah!" yelled one of his compatriots from his table. "We STILL saw 'er first, we did!"

"In your barrel dreams," Mr. Tearlach rumbled, pointing at AnaMaria. "Was our lad what dids the spottin' first." The crew of the _Pearl_ all barked in agreement, once more rising to their feet. "And we says we wants 'er here with us!"

"Aye, _we_ wants the redhead!" Miranda didn't know who spoke this first, but soon the _Pearls_ were all chanting in unison, bellowing and stomping their feet with repeated calls of "We wants the redhead! We wants the redhead!" until Sparrow drew his pistol. Miranda flinched violently as the shot exploded from the barrel to ricochet with a brazen clang! off a hanging brass bell. From somewhere nearby, a donkey brayed loudly in protest.

"You see, mates," Jack announced after the raucous laughter faded. "None but the brave..." He grinned down at her, waggling his brows as he continued, " ...win the fair. Now. Where were we, sweetling?" Stowing his pistol, Jack's hands now rested on her waist, holding her in place while his body pressed against hers as he blew that awful stench her way again. "Ah, yes -- overcome with joy, you were. " His voice lowered to a murmur. "You should see him glare. If looks killed, luv, your never-to-be-called-humble servant would be no more." Focusing on only taking the shallowest of breaths, Miranda nodded weakly. "But I think something else... something to really make his day. " He ducked his head, lips just beside her ear. "Just a wee love-tap should do the trick. Make it look good."

Not comprehending, Miranda leaned back, staring in confusion. Jack rolled his eyes, lips barely moving as he groaned, "Oh, for God's sake, woman!" Then, much louder, "Struck dumb with a delicate emotion, eh, lamb?" The pressure of his hands lifted from her waist. " Not to worry. Old Jack'll _hhhave_ you screaming his praises soon enough. This, my darlin' girl, will be the day that you'll always remember as the day that you..."

The rest of his words were lost to her, drowned out by the sudden roaring in her ears as his hands abruptly announced their new location, and her posterior was roughly squeezed. Blinking, she became aware of several things at once: the howls of laughter from those surrounding them, the sudden realization that she was now at least five paces away from where she'd stood only a second before, the sight of Sparrow half turned from her, his body somewhat stooped, and a building, stinging pain in the palm of her hand.

He straightened and shook his head briskly, turning to Miranda with a look of wounded reproach, and with one hand pressed to his face. Already a mark was visible there on the high sweep of his cheekbone. Merciful Heaven... had she _struck_ the man? A wave of horror rose to drown her indignation, but he only eyed her like a puppy who had just been unfairly reprimanded. "A simple 'no' would have sufficed," Jack complained, rubbing at his reddening cheek. He pouted then, resembling nothing more than an overgrown, sulky child. "Fine, then. Have it your way. But you'll never know what you've missed. No, no, no! S' no use tryin' to hold me here. I've made up me mind, and Captain Jack Sparrow knows when he's not wanted." So saying, the pirate turned, drawing his injured pride around himself like a cloak as he staggered and wove his way out of her sight.

"Allow me the honor," a smooth voice said into her ear. Miranda started, turning to see a heavy goblet held out to her. Lifting her eyes, she found Gorsse watching her smugly.

"For what, sir?" she asked, forcing her treacherous voice to sound calm. If possible, Gorsse looked even more pleased.

"For performing the very deed I've wished to do for ever so very long, my dear girl. And for sending that scurrilous cur on his way with his tail between his legs. Please." This last he implored, waving the goblet closer. She took it with a murmured thanks, carefully sipping a tiny mouthful of what proved to be a very bitter, very poor excuse for ale. Gorsse's eyes grew avid, traveling up and down her body in such a way that made her wish she had slapped _him_ instead. "Why don't you come with me," he entreated, resonant voice softer. "I have a few coin to spare, and we can celebrate the departure of that foul excuse for a hominid together in more... private settings?"

It would take far more than a single goblet of cheap ale to cloud her wits to the point where that would ever be an attractive proposal, but Miranda dropped her eyes demurely. "Thank you, but I'm actually searching for--"

"Fer a _real_ man ta' tame a spitfire like yersel'. Ain't I right?" Miranda angled her head slowly, her gaze traveling from the grubby, thick fingered hand that gripped the velvet of her sleeve, up to the equally grubby face of the large bellied fellow. His round face split in a great beaming smile. "Not some pretty-pretty faced, scrawny wee slip of a lad. 'N Bookman's like to be as big a bore in the sack what 'ee is the rest 'o the time." His friends all laughed appreciatively. Miranda sensed Gorsse stiffen in ire at her side, while this dirty man tugged at her arm as though expecting to lead her off like an obedient pet. This made it easier. Pushing down fear and revulsion, she set her features into a look of stony disapproval.

"Remove your hand from my person," she instructed coldly. "Or I will saw it from your arm and feed it to the swine."

There was more laughter at this, but Kursar's voice rumbled out, " Seein' as she 'bout took that Sparrow feller's head clean off, I'd say she's more trouble than she's worth. Man might wake up with a few important bits missin', if ye follow." Her accoster, no doubt not wishing to lose face before his friends, only tugged again. Miranda set her teeth and remembering a day well spent with Master Zheng's eldest granddaughter, Xi, reached for the offending hand, and for the rather tender cluster of nerves that she'd learned lurked between the base of the thumb and the wrist.

His pained yelp was quite satisfying. Miranda hoped that her nails hurt him too as they pressed into his flesh. Not relenting the pressure of her grip, she turned to the startled audience. "Would one of you be so kind as to lend me the use of a knife? I'm not particularly concerned about its cleanliness. Or its edge, for that matter." The next yelp was even louder. The hand was ripped from her grasp as her assailant, face drained of color, stumbled back with a look of horror. For the first time, the little square was utterly silent. Even the _Pearls_ were staring with a trepidation she hoped was feigned. Miranda had never before thought of herself as intimidating. The feeling was oddly empowering. Mr. Cotton's Parrot flapped its brilliant wings rapidly, fluffing out its feathers with a loud call of: "Limp from the yards! Limp from the yards!" Ani snorted, then coughed to disguise it, but other sounds of humor soon followed, rippling along from table to table.

"Wuz jis bein' friendly 'n all," the fellow muttered, cradling his hand to his breast. Only when he returned to his seat did Miranda return her attention to the reason for her visit.

"I'm sorry, what was I saying?" Gorsse was giving her a rather wild eyed look. Miranda tapped thoughtfully at her cheek. "Ah, yes. I recall -- I'm afraid I mustn't delay, as I'm searching for... but wait." She widened her eyes in what she hoped would read as artful innocence. "Did I hear that cad refer to you as 'Bookman?' Are you, perchance, a man of letters?" Gorsse blinked and shook himself like a man newly awakened. His face grew sly.

"I am, dear girl. How may I be of... service to you?" The tone was insinuating, and his eyes had yet again drifted downward from her face. Miranda ground her teeth, then pushed onward.

"Then you just may be familiar with the one I am searching for." A tactic with perhaps a touch of cruelty to it, but one that brought his eyes back where they belonged. "I've heard that there is a man here on this island who has made a study of the languages of the ancients." She ended this on a hopeful note, watching as Gorsse drew himself up proudly, now gazing loftily down his rather substantial nose.

"Your servant," he replied, sounding far more pompous than any servant would dare. _Like the reefs and shoals of His Majesty's court_, Miranda reminded herself, and smiled widely.

"Why, this is a marvelous turn!" she exclaimed, clapping her hands together. "Oh, I am so very pleased to make your acquaintance, Mr..?" Gorsse was now staring like a poleaxed ox. Miranda supposed she should be grateful, as at least he was looking her in the eye, for once. Smile at him, Jack had insisted. Had he known that it would inexplicably render the man mute? She wished he'd seen fit to impart that information. Gorsse seemed to collect himself, taking the hand held just before his face to bow over it in brief obescience.

"Thaddeus Gorsse, madame," he introduced. "And it would be my pleasure to aid you in any manner you deem fitting." His voice implied that 'any manner' should extend solely to the carnal. So did the way his grasp lingered on her hand. Extricating herself without appearing hasty took a bit of doing on her part, but Gorsse was easily distracted soon after.

"Only a simple translation, Mr. Gorsse. And one I'm certain won't be taxing at all for a man of your education." Perhaps it would be wise to verify this first before any further involvement. If he was truly as knowledgeable as Jack Sparrow claimed, Gorsse should, at the very least, be able to correctly interpret the engravings on her ring band. "If you don't mind, I believe I saw you seated over there before I was so rudely accosted?" He frowned at this reminder of his lapse in manners. But recovering quickly, the defrocked priest took her by the elbow, and with an unctuous smile, lead her to the table where he conducted his business.

"Of course, madame. May I offer you the comfort of my humble study?" The smirk had returned, but with a bitter, self mocking edge. Gorsse made a great show of withdrawing a dirty handkerchief, dusting the water-worn bench. He waved for her to sit. "You'll forgive the deplorable conditions. Good domestics are so very hard to come by these days."

Miranda allowed herself to laugh, seating herself with an eye for any stray nails that might catch at her skirts. Gorsse, already perched on his bench, poured himself a second goblet of the bitter ale. Eyes locked on her face, his own grew oddly wistful. But shaking himself, he returned to the task at hand.

"Now, before we begin, dear madame, shall we discuss the matter of fees for my services?"

_Carefully now,_ she thought, and folded her hands lightly atop the grimy table. "Before we broach the subject of your payment, Mr. Gorsse, I must require an act of good faith on your part." He nodded warily. Miranda drew her mother's ring from her finger. "Pardon my presumption, but I've heard such preposterous claims since I made landing, that I cannot help but to be cautious."

Fair enough, Gorsse's shrug suggested. "Then what would you have me do to prove myself?"

"Only tell me what is inscribed here first." Miranda held out her hand, noting a stab of anxiety at seeing the heirloom plucked from her. It had never unnerved her so at seeing it in Jack Sparrow's grasp. Gorsse turned the band this way and that, squinting intently at the tiny markings.

"Most remarkable," he breathed. "Certainly resembles one of the earliest examples of the language's written form, if my eyes don't deceive me." But when he looked up, Gorsse's dark and bloodshot eyes bored suspiciously into hers. "You already know what's written here?"

"Of course," Miranda admitted. "How else am I to know if you are the one who can aid..."

"The first words," Gorsse interrupted with a cutting sweep of his hand. "Pardon _my_ presumption, madame, but experience has taught me caution as well. I'll accept your claim if you will but recite the first few words. If not..." He placed the ring between them, and rapped his knuckles on the weathered table top. "If not, I shall demand payment immediately before proceeding any further. And an apology as well, for your wasting my time."

Miranda clenched her teeth. Of all the arrogant, impertinent...

_Calmly now, luv_. How strange that her own mind would reprimand her in the voice of Jack Sparrow. She meekly lowered her eyes. "If it will convince you that my aim is not to cheat you, then very well. It begins: '_From daughter to daughter..."_

"Wrong!" Gorsse barked. Miranda's stomach lurched, but with a derisive snort he continued, "Whomever told you so was in error, madame, for it plainly begins: '_From _the_ daughter to _the_ daughter_." She knew her face must not have registered the expected look of enlightenment, for the defrocked priest's mouth twisted into a horrible sneer. "A pity that for all your assumed airs of refinement, the subtle linguistical emphasis is lost on such common ears."

Miranda lifted her chin sharply. "If you cannot conduct business in a civil manner, I shall take my questions, and my coin elsewhere." To herself she admitted that it might not be wise to antagonize this prickly individual, but she wasn't about to let on how desperately they needed his aid, how desperately she yearned for the knowledge that only he could provide. Gorsse's self important look faltered. Miranda seized the opportunity. "Perhaps if you would explain why the distinction is so important?" she suggested in a far gentler tone, to which he readily responded.

"Of course, madame. Only that it places emphasis strongly on what must have been the very specific female offspring of an equally specific family. One can even infer from this that not just any girl child of that family would do."

Could one infer so? She supposed it must be, given the fact that it was she, and not her elder sister, who was presently seated here in this wretched place.

"And as to the rest," Gorsse continued. "Quite fascinating, I must say: _'From the daughter to the daughter,' _" he read carefully, " '_until she comes: The Landless._' "

"That can't be right!" Miranda cried before she could stop herself. She felt the blood drain from her face, while Gorsse only gave her a horrified look. Horrified that she might think him mistaken, that is.

"It may be a lesser known form, possibly Minoan in origin. But I assure you, madame, that I am most certain in my findings."

"But could you have... could it be that..." Miranda's thoughts raced. So quickly that she couldn't find her speech. She sipped at her bitter ale, struggling vainly to gather her wits. Those five words reverberated through her mind, taking many of her long held notions and turning them upside-down. _Unti_l SHE _comes?_ "The Landless? Forgive me, sir, but are you quite sure that it doesn't say... something else?"

"Quite." Gorsse dipped one forefinger into his ale. "See now. This is your writing here." And he traced the familiar shapes on the table top. "And this," he said, dipping into the ale again, "is the same in the more commonly recognizable form. And again in the modern language. Surely you can see the similarities, regardless of the eons that separate them."

Miranda stared at the damp tracings. There were too many similarities to discount. How could mother have been so wrong? The ring did not say 'Land's End.' It did not speak of an event or location, but of a person instead. A woman without... property? Without a home? This made even less sense to her than ever! The beginnings of a headache throbbed dully at the base of her skull. She fought the urge to rub at her neck as she watched Gorsse's ale painted markings evaporate.

"Whomever owned your little trinket must have been quite the connoisseur," she heard the man remark as if from a great distance. His pale, ink stained fingers crept towards the ring. "I wonder if he's missing it."

The implied accusation nearly brought her to her feet. "It belonged to my mother," she all but snarled. "And to her mother before her. And I'll thank you to keep your insinuations to yourself if you wish our business to continue.

"What business?" Gorsse sneered, brows lifting in amusement when Miranda placed her hand firmly over her 'little trinket'. "I've seen nothing resembling currency exchange hands. And despite the undeniably scintillating pleasure of your... company," he added with another leering examination of her bodice. "I see no reason to continue until such a time as you have provided some form of compensation to retain my services."

It was almost entertaining to watch that smug look slide from his ill-mannered face. This time, as he stared with visible hunger at the pair of fat gold coins held negligently between two upheld fingers, and his pallid hands clenched convulsively, Miranda answered with a smirk the rival of any he'd thus displayed.

"Do we have an understanding?" she asked archly. Gorsse swallowed hard, running the tip of his tongue over narrow lips. He nodded once and met her eyes with a polite attentiveness she wouldn't have thought him capable of. Though his gaze darted now and again to the two coins, and he voiced a note of distress when she returned them to her pocket. "Very good, Mr. Gorsse. But if if wouldn't tax your hospitality, I would like to continue this elsewhere. It would be nice if half the island wasn't privy to my personal matters." Gorsse was already on his feet and half way to her side, hand extended to help her rise. His speed would have alarmed her had she not just witnessed his transformation in the light of her gold. Still, Miranda recalled Sparrow's warning to not be alone with this man, and cast a quick look over her shoulder, hoping to catch the eye of one of the _Pearls_.

"Where'd that servin' wench take 'erself off to?" AnaMaria barked gruffly, already making for the tavern door. "Workin' up some powerful thirst out here, 'n she's prob'ly off powderin' 'er nose." As she swaggered past, AnaMaria tilted her head and gave Miranda a jaunty smile and a wink from beneath her wide brimmed hat.

"Now, lad, doan' you be gittin' so wrapped up wi' the wench that ye be fergettin' ta send her back with the drink!" Kursar rumble out, and was duly ignored.

The Fiddle and Fife, Miranda decided , was quite possibly the foulest place she'd ever set foot to -- including some poorly kept operating theaters she'd had the misfortune of visiting. She could not dignify this place by calling it a pig sty, for what self-respecting pig would leave its much cleaner mud pit for this? Her nose wrinkled at the olfactory assault. At the reek of unwashed bodies, rotting food, and stale drink. At the stench of bile, waste, and of things festering. The bilge of the _Black Pearl_ could be called a rose garden in comparison! Gorsse lead her to a table which, thank Heaven, stood in line with the open doorway. At least something resembling fresh air might reach her . But as he waved for her to seat herself on the filthy bench, Miranda debated the merits of ingesting poison instead. _Why_ had she allowed Jack Sparrow to abscond with her cloak? As she wavered, a length of dark fabric was thrown over the bench. Seeing her reluctance, Gorsse had removed his own coat. Though not having much faith in this being a vast improvement, given what she had seen of Tortugan hygiene, Miranda appreciated the sentiment. For the briefest of moments she almost felt fond of the man.

Only for a moment. It was gold, after all, and not courtesy that inspired his actions. Miranda sighed and returned to the task at hand, glancing covertly about before springing the tiny clasp. The sight of the cold gem beneath the golden dome made her very flesh cringe back in a way that not even the surrounding filth could. "This is what must be deciphered, Mr. Gorsse."

At first glimpse of the carvings, Gorsse forgot himself enough to throw her a sour look. This she could easily forgive. The symbols were positively miniscule, after all. He squinted, bringing the stone so close that it almost touched his long nose. After turning it at every possible angle, he looked up hopefully. "The light would be better outside, madame."

"Absolutely not." Miranda was ready for this, and she would in no way allow the chance of another dreadful experience with the stone. "You must understand, Mr. Gorsse, that this ring is quite ancient and exceedingly fragile. I simply cannot risk exposing it to the elements. I was told that a matching piece was lost when its stone shattered in the chill air, and I couldn't bear to see the same happen to this." Oh, she could more than bear to see this stone shatter if it would solve her current problem, but knew that something so fragile wouldn't have survived the centuries, trading hands as it had, without being made of sterner stuff. Gorsse nodded slowly, accepting her fabrication. Without another word he held up his hands in a stalling gesture, set the ring carefully beside the lump of candle, and rose to march smartly out the door. Miranda stared after him, then turned to meet AnaMaria's anxious stare. The girl's brows lifted inquiringly. Miranda could only answer with a helpless shrug.

Just as suddenly the former cleric burst in, arms now loaded with a great jumble of parchment sheets, writing implements, and a flat wooden box. Spreading these out on the table, Gorsse ignored the protests of other patrons, and brazenly commandeered another pair of candles to add to the one already burning fitfully at his chosen workspace. Then, taking up the ring, he withdrew from the wooden box a finely made magnifying lens, and set to giving the stone what Miranda was sure was the most thorough examination it had received in... well, in millennia.

In the next several minutes Gorsse was a flurry of activity. He stared furiously through his magnifying lens, angling the ring in the candle light. Unerringly the lens would drop into its satin lined box as the man Sparrow had describes as, among other things, a scholar as well as theologian, snatched up his pen to mark down what he had seen. Soon neat rows of widely spaced characters lined the page, ink gleaming wetly. Gorsse had even inscribed that perplexing emblem with its attendant symbols. The ring was again handed back as Gorsse bent his head over the parchment. A steady stream of half mumbled words accompanied the scratch of his pen, and despite his boorish behavior, Miranda was impressed. To decipher such ancient script as this, she would have thought that at the very least comparable texts would be required. Thaddeus Gorsse was translating solely from the knowledge in his head. Miranda leaned forward, straining to see what was written. She made out boldly penned letters beneath each word of the stone's carvings, first in what looked to her eyes to be a more contemporary form of Greek, and below these, smaller English script. There were very few spaces where words had been struck out and rewritten.

It was his certainty that caused a most unwelcome idea to spring to mind. An idea that could render this day's entire ordeal down to a moot point. Miranda pressed her lips together, nails digging into her palm as she clenched her hand tightly. Gorsse ended with a flourish. Laying aside his pen, he clasped his hands together and eyed her expectantly. Clearly he wished for his payment before surrendering his writings, but gold was the last thing on her mind just then. Looking from his eager face to the parchment beneath his clasped hands, she sighed and asked, "How?"

"I beg your pardon?"

"I'm not a fool, Mr. Gorsse, contrary to what you may believe. For example, I do know that ancient texts prior to a certain period are as indecipherable as... as the petroglyphs of the Egyptians." Raising her eyes, Miranda noted a flash of approval in his own. "How am I to trust that what you propose to tell me is, in truth, accurate?"

For a long moment, Gorsse remained utterly inscrutable. All at once, then, a wide smile lit up his harsh face. "You surprise me, madame. Not many would know to ask such a question. My compliments to your instructors."

As if she was incapable of opening a book and learning for herself. But Miranda graciously inclined her head.

"To answer, then," he continued. "While it remains a sorry fact that academia as a whole has yet to solve many linguistical puzzles, some of us have..." He paused, glanced around, then lowered his voice to a dramatic whisper. "Have had the good fortune to acquire the proper cyphers!" he finished, and sat back, looking rather like a performer awaiting his due applause. He was doomed to disappointment just then. Miranda only regarded him skeptically. This, however, brought about a most unexpected reaction as the fellow hastened to defend his claim.

"It's these wretched creatures all around us, dear lady -- these _pirates_," he clarified, still in low tones. "They've no idea what true riches have passed through their grubby hands when they've condescended to allow me to take these so-called worthless scraps off their hands." For the first time the man's face came alive. Miranda thought that she might be witnessing a hint of what he had been before he was tempted away from his former calling by his own vice.

And with the help of a certain pirate of mutual acquaintance, she reminded herself. Gorsse should never have been placed as Rector to begin with. One like this would have been better utilized in a strictly academic capacity. A notion that was further reinforced when he leaned towards her, eyes now burning with a scholarly fever.

"Scrolls, madame. Scrolls so ancient that, had it not been for their well-oiled wrappings, should have crumbled to dust. Scrolls of papyrus, and animal skins as well. Some more contemporary than others, but..." Gorsse gave a little shudder of pleasure. "But marked with the seal of Alexandria itself!"

"The Library?" Miranda gasped, now fully caught up in his fervor. The destroyed Library, she marveled. Legendary repository of miraculous knowledge. Medical knowledge, even! That something could have survived the inferno... She shook herself. This was neither the time, nor place. Jack would be waiting for word, and she was certain he would only wait for so long. But Gorsse had discovered a kindred spirit, and the discovery had radically altered his view of her.

"Exactly!" he exclaimed, then quieted himself with effort. "It's by comparing many of these, that my efforts to unravel the mysteries of our ancestors have succeeded where so many of my colleagues have utterly failed! But they'll know. They'll _all_ know, once I've gotten off this abysmal... er... once I've compiled sufficiently to publish."

Miranda caught his slip, filing it away as potentially useful for any future dealings, while Gorsse proudly held out the fruits of his recent labor. "Here, " he commanded. "Judge for yourself. If you find it lacking..." He drew a deep breath and waved a hand with practiced carelessness. A gesture that warred with his pained expression. "No charge."

Miranda took the sheet with trembling fingers. Here, at last, were the answers so desperately sought.


	40. Chapter 36

Did you miss me? (ducks thrown tomatoes)

Ok, ok, I get it, I get it! But here we are... almost 10 years since the release of Curse Of The Black Pearl, and after several years of hospital trips, writer's block, dead computers, then living computers with dead internet, moving, unpacking, trauma, drama... well, let's just say it's been... real. But I'm back. And more importantly, THEY'RE back - the characters that won't leave me alone. Even better, they're talking. Well... some of them are screaming, but there you go. So why don't we get right to it with:

**Between The Raindrops**

**Chapter 36**

It was a rare occurrence these days that James Norrington allowed himself the luxury of a luncheon at the Governor's mansion. Unsurprising, as his own duties of late required more than the lion's share of his time, what with the redeployment of so many ships and men to distant waters. At such times as these, James found himself almost regretting the elevated rank bestowed upon him.

Oh, not the position itself, to be sure. Too long, too hard the journey. No, it was the lack of those of similar standing that plagued the Commodore. Now more so than ever, what with the tenuous peace with the French and Spaniards once again balanced on sword's edge. The inexplicable resurgence of hostilities had taken their toll on His Majesty's forces. Had left a disquieting number of vacancies in the upper echelons that proved difficult to fill. James now found himself on the one hand dreadfully lacking in those fit to command, and on the other, overrun with those ships and men requiring orders. As a result, the entirety of The King's Navy currently abroad in the Spanish Main now looked to him for leadership, and James now found himself recalling those days spent in harrowing pursuit of lawless brigands with something approaching nostalgia.

He shook himself and returned his attention to his meal; cold game bird delicately seasoned and garnished with a piquant remoulade chilled in ice from the Governor's cold cellar. A refined dish enjoyed in refined, well appointed settings. Truly a welcome respite from the mountains of paperwork currently languishing in his office. Along with an equally great number of impatient officers, no doubt.

Though the strained atmosphere and stilted conversation on this day were almost enough to make him regret his attendance. James reflected on this as he dared a careful examination of his host. Governor Swann was not possessed of his usual appetite for fine dining and discourse. He appeared to have spent most of the meal pushing his food aimlessly around and around the fine porcelain chinaware, ingesting little, if any at all.

Wetherby Swann was a brilliant man. It had taken James a long time to recognize this, and regrettably, longer still before the thought had even occurred to him to utilize the knowledge. It was too easy, he admitted, to see only the ornate wardrobe and florid wig, and miss the wit and insight that lurked within. So simple to look with the typical arrogance of his ilk upon one both a landsman and a civilian, and dismiss him as yet another foppish, effete aristocrat. Discovering the truth had been something of a humbling experience.

Staunch and evenhanded, Swann upheld his duties to King and Country in a manner nigh unparalleled in a region dominated by the petty and self serving. He commanded the respect of his peers - including the foreign ones, and held a regard that reached all the way to London. Even to the very throne itself. But more than this, the Governor possessed a keen and uncanny eye for seeing straight to the heart of an issue, be it domestic or diplomatic. A judgement that James had never before seen clouded, save by the only other person to dine with them this day.

James did not look at her. Not just then. Even now the mere sight of her brought a heaviness to his heart, and a most unmanly tightness to his throat. Instead, he focused his attention upon the drawn and fatigued face of an unmistakably troubled father.

Governor Swann continued to toy with his food, pushing it this way and that while his eyes continuously darted from his plate, to his daughter, and back again. James steeled himself, fortified with a sip of pale wine, and forced himself to confront the object of his host's obvious distress.

The old familiar pain lanced through his limbs. Mercifully dulled by the passage of time, but even so, to look at Elizabeth Swa - _Turner_, and be uneffected was to gaze too long at the sun, and remain undazzled.

James could not help but be dazzled. He did not wish to be. Had done his level best to keep his distance since the infamous day of that botched hanging. But as fate would have it, he'd not been allowed that luxury forever. As the de-facto military head of these waters he was required to spend at least part of his time with the one to represent the civil and political arm of His Majesty. And wife of a lowly blacksmith or no, Elizabeth was still every inch a Governor's daughter.

What a shame that it had taken the shattering of their brief engagement for him to even begin to appreciate that she was also every bit Weatherby Swann's daughter. And then some.

A smile threatened at his lips as he remembered a night that had brought this fact sharply home. A night little more than a year prior when Elizabeth, eyes crackling with fervor, face besmudged with tar and grime, reeking of bilge, and dressed head to foot in the lowly garb of a common deckhand, had pressed a bundle of notes into his startled hands with the demand that he 'see for himself.' Only hours earlier had James seen her in full, heart stopping glory as she'd charmed the Ambassador of the Spanish Territories. Disappearing to take the air in the gardens, she had come to him later with urgent, hissed warnings that he'd foolishly passed off as a simple matter of a misunderstanding. Surely she couldn't believe she'd managed in the space of a single afternoon tea to uncover a plot years in the making? One that would see the overthrow of most of England's holdings in the West Indies?

Of course she could. And what's more, had convinced her espoused of the same. Under the cover of darkness the two had stolen aboard the Ambassador's ship, retrieved a packet of lists and letters that were shocking not only in the depth of detail, but in some of the names involved. Along with these came a frightful tally of crate upon crate of munitions, not only in the Spaniard's hold, but those of his escort ships. All to aid in this purported overthrow.

James clearly remembered the moment when he'd met Turner's eyes, horrified that the boy would willingly allow his fiancee to engage in so risky an endeavour. Turner, equally as dirty and disheveled as said fiancee, had merely raised a brow, answering James' unspoken question with one of his own: "Have you ever tried to stand in her way?"

James had tried, for all the good it had done him. But Elizabeth was a force unto herself. She had matched both wit and nerve against murderous pirates, treasonous conspirators, and scandalous gossip, and done so with a fortitude unmatched by even the most decorated veterans. This was one woman who would not be content to remain in the place that society had deemed fitting for one of her rank and sex. She would not be content to limit herself to the rigid and constrained role of a Commodore's dutiful wife.

She would not be content... with him.

He pushed these maudlin thoughts aside. They served no purpose, save to raise a bitterness within himself that he was frankly weary of facing.

"You seem tired, James. You've not been taking care for yourself."

James blinked, realizing that Elizabeth had noticed his idle musings, and had addressed him. There was a look of friendly concern on her face. A face that, though lovely as ever, showed a pallor and fatigue he'd not marked before.

"As to be expected in such times as these, I'm afraid," he replied, finding himself pathetically touched by her regard. Then it struck him. Had he not recently heard through the scuttlebutt that wound its way through his own officers via their wives of the event soon to be visited upon this new family? Perhaps this would explain her father's anxiety. "Though unlike yourself, I fear my own debilitation lacks the same joyous purpose." He said this with a gentle smile, hoping to delicately convey his congratulations. He was surprised to see her own smile falter, and wondered if he'd misspoke. Elizabeth looked away, back to her plate, and much like her father, began to toy with her food.

"Thank you, James."

Her voice was quiet. Deliberate, yet so uncharacteristically fragile. James felt a great weight settle in his stomach as the sheen of tears glistened in her downcast eyes. "Forgive me," he stammered. "If I've spoken out of turn..."

"Elizabeth," Governor Swann interjected, and James thought the man had suddenly aged a decade right before him. "My dear, I -"

"Father!" Elizabeth placed her fork carefully upon the table. The tightening of her finely sculpted lips suggested more the desire to throw it down. "There's no need to go over this again. I am fine."

Governor Swann was not reassured. "But..." He glanced quickly towards their guest. "But you've not had sufficient time to recover. I know you believe otherwise, but it's only been -"

"Long enough!" Her shoulders, which had drooped ever so slightly, now snapped to ramrod-straight attention. "I cannot bear to remain abed one moment longer, nor tolerate your and my husband's belief that I am some sort of invalid." She lifted her chin. A gesture well remembered._ Try indeed to stand in her way._ "And contrary to what your physicians might think, I am not the first nor only woman to... to suffer a disappointment. It is of no consequence." Despite her words, Elizabeth failed to disguise the tremor in her voice at that last.

James winced, embarrassed at his own presence in what was clearly so private a familial matter. At the same time a pang of sympathy squeezed at his heart. So this was the reason for the Governor's behavior. It had been, as James recalled, the death of Swann's wife in childbed that had prompted his acceptance of this not entirely civilized posting. A most necessary change for a grieving widower left to care for his only child alone in a house that held too many memories. What an awful thing to face losing that child, and to identical circumstances. And if young Turner's distress was even half that of the father's... "On the contrary," he heard himself speak, amazed at his own presumption. "I would insist that it is the only thing of consequence to each of the men whose names you have borne."

Silence greeted this observation. James ignored the heat crawling up from beneath his collar, manfully meeting the stares of his hosts. "And might I also be so bold as to add that it is of some consequence to those who would consider the well being of... of those they hold in most high regard, to be of paramount importance as well?"

In the uncomfortable stretch that followed, Elizabeth considered his words. Face carefully neutral, she weighed the olive branch offered her, searching for hidden guile while her father glanced fretfully to each of them. It was to be expected. James, admitting that he'd not treated her with any great warmth since deferring to William Turner's patently stronger claim to her affections, now found himself shamed. No matter the circumstance, he would not have wished this upon her, nor her husband. He pushed away all thought of resentments and regrets, and to his surprise found it easier than he'd dared to imagine.

"Perhaps a compromise?" he suggested frankly. "One to spare you the dreary confinement to a sickbed." Then, with mock seriousness, "But only activities that, for once, do not involve frightening all those concerned for you into flights of panic. May we agree to no boarding of hostile vessels? No swordplay with dissolute criminals? Certainly no leaping from the cliff-tops. Not for a fortnight, at least."

Elizabeth laughed. A clear, ringing sound. The Governor gave him a grateful look, and a hopeful smile eased some of the stress from his face. Then Elizabeth glanced to each of them. A spark of mischief lit her eyes.

"A bargain, then. Nothing more strenuous than walks in the garden for... for a week." She reached out to grasp her father's hand, then turned with arched brow. "If - _if_ - you'll both share news from Whitehall and Westminster. And St. James, as well. Whatever is happening, it will undoubtably reach here. I've no wish to be caught by surprise."

James leaned back in his chair. Not the latest courtly gossip for her. No. Nothing would interest her less, he'd wager. He reached into his coat for the latest dispatches from Whitehall's Admiralty, glancing to the Governor for permission. Swann shrugged minutely, inclining his head towards his daughter. "I assure you she'll find out, regardless. Would you believe she'd known of your promotion to Commodore even before I had?"

Elizabeth patted his hand. "Well, yes. But at least the dress was unexpected."

* * *

"Madame?"

Startled, Miranda blinked up into Thaddeus Gorsse's worried face, while what felt like ever muscle in her body slowly unclenched, one by one.

"You've been staring at that for some time," he said. His narrowed eyes flicked to the page in her hands. "And you've gone quite pale, I fear. Was something lacking in my translation?"

"Lacking?" In a manner of speaking. Dear Merciful Heaven, where did this leave her now? "Oh... no. No, not at all. It was only..." Miranda stared again at the boldly penned words. "Only somewhat... unanticipated." She read the page again, then once more for good measure. It did no good. The words did not change.

**_ Be thou, Oh Sleeper_****,** it read, **_Bound and sundered until the end of all. Wake not again, Oh Wrathful Storm._**

Tears rose to sting her eyes. Miranda fought the urge to scream. This was... useless. Oh, to be sure it corroborated a few half remembered fragments, but beyond that? She was no better informed than before.

_ Oh, Jack_, she thought, sickening with dismay. _What do we do now?_

"I must confess," she heard Gorsse say. "I don't believe I quite did justice to that last part." Miranda forced her attention back to the pale man.

"In what way, sir?"

Gorsse reached for the page, gently drawing it from her to spread it out on the surface between them. "You must understand," he began with perhaps a touch of defensiveness. "I've rarely come across this form of the tongue. I'm afraid I might have gotten somewhat carried away." He shrugged in a self-deprecating manner. Miranda wished he would just get to the point.

"You see, it's here." Gorsse picked up his dry pen, using it to indicate the last two words. "Literally transposed, _'Wrathful Storm_' is perhaps the closest to conveying the true meaning. But upon further reflection, I can only conclude that it is instead meant to denote a proper name." He dipped his pen, blotted the excess, then set down a new line of English characters in his deliberate hand. "This name."

**_ Typhaeron_**

Miranda leaned in to better see, and at the sight, felt as if a great chasm opened beneath her. She tumbled helplessly into it.

A war in the skies... Great beings battling for dominance... Great Ones...

Gods.

Blood falling from the heavens, and the very earth shrieked with the horror of it.

One immortal in triumph. One immortal in utter defeat, yet defiant.

"Bind him in chains of slumber. Let him remain until the end of all."

A Mother weeping for her fallen child. A Mother forced to orchestrate and bear witness to the fall of that child.

There was another mother. One who held the Sacred and Accursed to her bosom, and to her heart. _"You must be strong, my Tryphia, and guard this for our Mother."_

Tryphia... _She_ was Tryphia! But it was not her mother - it was not mama's face, but a mother in whom the blue and green of the seas reflected in the highlight of deep black hair, and in wide, heavy-lidded eyes.

_ "Strong and watchful. He sleeps now. But should he wake, though he cannot bear the touch of your father, still he will seek to regain what he lost."_ And she offered the stone, glinting its sullen grey light within the gold of its setting.

And Tryphia - _Miranda_ - reached out her hands and took the Sacred and Accursed unto herself.

But these were not her hands! Hers had never been so sun-darkened, nor so large. The smallest finger on the left hand perfectly straight, where her own was not. This knuckle was not swollen, nor the didget crooked inward, poorly set from when a drunken husband had snapped it in his rage. This Tryphia, this Miranda was not her!

Yet in a terrifying and inexplicable way, it was. Other images flashed. So quickly that she had no hope to grasp or make sense of them. And as if from a great distance a voice was addressing her.

"Madame? I say, madame, are you well?"

With immense effort Miranda wrenched herself into the here and now. "I beg your pardon?" Her eyes refocused on the harsh-faced Gorsse. He stared oddly, but relaxed back into his seat, fingers toying nervously with the parchment.

The parchment. His payment. Gorsse managed a certain decorum in not snatching at the two coins she held out, but couldn't restrain an ecstatic shiver as his fingers closed around the gold. "Most generous of you, madame," he breathed. "Yes, yes. Eminently kind, dear lady."

Caught up in her own misery, Miranda scarcely heard him. She only gave the barest of nods. Generous, he'd called her. But what good had it done her to be so? All the gold in the world could not provide an answer that wasn't there to be gleaned, and without this answer her enemies would win. In which case, what did it matter into whose hands her gold went?

"...Only musing aloud, you understand," the defrocked priest prattled on, unaware of her distress. "And though it doesn't detract in the least from my work here, I feel compelled to mention..."

He broke off. Miranda brought herself to focus again. "Mr. Gorsse?" she prompted gently. Gorsse only winced. She sighed, clinging to the remnants of her manners. "Mr. Gorsse, please. If there's anything that may be added to what you've learned, I pray you tell me now."

"Oh, I'm certain it's nothing. Not of any great value, and surely no more than a mere curiosity. But I feel I must tell you that... well, that I've seen that name before."

Miranda's heart lurched in her breast. Clenching her hands into fists, nails digging painfully into her palms, she nodded for him to continue. Gorsse nervously cleared his throat.

"As I've said, this is probably nothing that would carry any interest for you. But it brought to mind a text that I've never quite managed to get around to translating. Not beyond the first few measures, at any rate. I'm almost loathe to mention it, save for the fact that that very name, which I assure you, madame, I've seen in no other writing before this very day, also appears to factor rather prominently in it."

Miranda blinked slowly. "And are you still in possession of this text?" she asked in a voice barely above a whisper.

"Oh, most assuredly. It's questionable merit notwithstanding, I would never allow such an extensive example of the Proto-Peloponnesian dialects to evade me."

_ Proto_-what? Miranda felt she was fast approaching the end of her tether. "Questionable merit," she carefully repeated. "Explain, if you will, Mr. Gorsse."

The man wrinkled his long nose in distaste. "Merely that it proports to be an obscure mythological account, madame. Rather poorly executed, I must say. As if the author couldn't make up his mind if he was writing an historical text, or a fictional composition. But as stated..." He trailed off and tapped meaningfully at the boldly penned name.

In other words, Miranda thought, it could mean nothing at all.

Or everything.

"How much time," she began unsteadily. "How soon can you provide a complete translation?" Gorsse straightened. Then his look grew cunning as he laced his fingers together.

"I say, madame... you've rather caught me wrong footed. This sort of undertaking... a task of this size - and it is an extensive text, madame, I promise you that..." He hemmed and hawed, repeatedly passing a nervous tongue over his lips, until Miranda could no longer stand to wait for him to get around to proposing a fee. She reached into her pocket, not caring how many coins her hand closed around. She scarcely spared them a glance before setting all twelve in a neat row before the slack-jawed Gorsse.

"My dear lady," he stammered, eyes locked on the golden disks. "I shall begin immediately! I shall have it in your hands in two days time, most generous lady!"

Two days? Miranda broke into his ebullient, flowery compliments. "I'm afraid you've misunderstood, Mr. Gorsse. This is but a downpayment. You shall have the other half when I come to retrieve your translation at..." She paused, then conceded the need for some amount of time. "At this hour tomorrow. Have we an agreement, sir?" Gorsse only stared.

And stared. And stared.

Then, with a low cry the man launched himself across the table. Snatching up her hand, he proceeded to bathe it with a multitude of noisy kisses. Miranda recoiled, but his fingers clung like vines, and his attentions were now interspersed with babbled praise.

"Mr. Gorsse..." _Oh, how embarrassing!_ Miranda glanced around, finding that most of the patrons in the dark tavern watched this display with unconcealed astonishment. AnaMaria, on the other hand, was obviously having difficulty restraining her laughter. "Yes. Yes, you are most welcome, Mr. Gorsse. Yes, truly. Now, if you will pardon me, I have much to attend to before we meet again. As do you," she added as a gentle reminder, at last able to reclaim her bedampened hand. Surreptitiously wiping this on her skirts, she rose to take her leave. "Until tomorrow, Mr. Gorsse. I wish you..." A glance at the table proved the almost magical disappearance of her coins. "I wish you a most productive evening."

The defrocked priest bobbed his head in acknowledgement, already on his feet and gathering his belongings with a most unseemly haste. "Don't forget your coat," Miranda added helpfully. But the man was almost halfway up the stairs, presumably off to his room, before the sound of her voice had died. From that hidden region came a bellowed exclamation, answered by a feminine squawk of protest and the emphatic slamming of a door. Miranda wisely decided that she really didn't want to know what had just occurred out of her sight.

"That made his day."

She turned, finding AnaMaria at her side. "But what about you?" the First Mate continued. "He give you what you need to know?" The girl bit her lip in dismay when Miranda shook her head. But a spark of cautious hope lit in her dark eyes when told of the task set before Gorsse.

"Though unfortunately," Miranda whispered. "It seems that I shall be required to return tomorrow."

AnaMaria screwed up her face in disgust. "Georgie's let the place go to seed, all right." Then with a comically overplayed pose, she offered her elbow and drawled, "Shall we away, Milady?" Miranda beamed, slipping her arm through the girl's

"My dear friend, I thought you'd never ask." Together the pair departed the Fiddle & Fife, stepping out into the once boisterous little square that was strangely still.

Silent as a tomb.


	41. Chapter 37

And here we are, gentle readers. As of 12:01 a.m. here on the Left Coast, it is now ten years to the day since the July 9, 2003 release of _Pirates of the Caribbean: Curse of the Black Pearl._ And what a decade it's been eh? I'd like to remind everyone that this story only deals with the events of that same film. We are AU as of everything after "Drink up, me hearties, Yo-ho!" *Click!* Well... let's be safer and say that we're AU right from the after credits. LOL

I'd like to thank everybody once again for sticking with me this far. Hope this offering doesn't disappoint.

* * *

**Chapter 37**

"Not good."

Five streets, six alehouses, and an indeterminate number of brothels away from the ramshackle Fiddle & Fife, Jack Sparrow glanced up and down the road that meandered towards the docks, and stepped cautiously from behind the shelter of a barrel laden cart. Over an hour, he reminded himself sourly, since he'd parted company with Eleazer Hammond. Over an hour since he'd left the Lady Miranda on Gorsse's veritable doorstep.

Not alone, to be sure. AnaMaria had most stridently demanded to watch over the noblewoman during her stay ashore, and Jack was all to happy to acquiesce. Smart, resourceful, and on the occasion downright vicious; the girl was well the equal of any man. Lord knows she'd had to be to survive. It helped Jack's nerves to remember that some of the maddest men to stand before a mast had also elected to keep watch. That had been decided the very night before their landing.

That was before they'd risen upon the morn to find the _Hadrian_ anchored off their larboard. The _Hadrian_; crewed by some of the foulest bilge rats to ever kneel before a holystone, if the tales could be trusted. Excluding his mutinous former crew, of course, Jack thought with a grimace. Though the men of the Hadrian seemed eager to claim that distinction for themselves. And their Captain...

Eleazar Hammond might well find the idea of proving worthy successor to Hector Barbossa's reputation an attractive one. The months spent serving under Hammond - or Hammer, as the scar-faced Captain preferred to be addressed - were some of the longest in Jack's life. In that time he'd witnessed things that still troubled his sleep, and carried reminders in his flesh that pained him upon the waking. Had he not desperately required passage, and had Hammond not been in need of a navigator and cartographer, their paths might never have crossed. Jack would have been all the happier for it.

Another glance up the street, accompanied by a strong twinge in his guts. The twinge that was telling him that his 'two bells' were long since up, and he'd not seen hide nor hair of the Hadrian's captain. Nor any of Hammond's crew, for that matter. Worse yet, he'd not spotted Joshamee either. It could be that there was nothing to report, but... Jack's guts tightened again, and his guts were rarely wrong. It was time to track down his Quartermaster, and the conspicuously absent Hammond.

An even better plan would be to bolt to the Fiddle & Fife and spirit Miranda back to the _Black Pearl_. She had been right, Jack admitted, as he had so many times this hour. One way or another, Gorsse should have been brought to the ship, instead of sending Miranda to him. Better to waste a few hours smoothing the ruffled feathers of a vengeful scholar than to risk crossing paths with Eleazar Hammond.

For that itself was another score that Lady Warringford had sensed with distressing accuracy: of all those encountered throughout his travels, there were few that Jack would truly say he feared. Lamentably, of those still among the living, Eleazar Hammond held a high place among them.

Cunning and the unpredictability of a mad animal made up some of the disfigured pirate's more cuddly characteristics. Hammond was not particularly intelligent. Prone to bouts of frightful stupidity, actually. But he was crafty, and quick with a blade. He coupled these with the heart of a bully, a genuine streak of sadism, and topped it off by surrounding himself with men of like mind.

Jack turned sharply on his heel, patience at an end. They were leaving. They were returning to the Pearl, and right bloody now! If Gorsse had to be stuffed into a ditty bag and slung over Sam's shoulder, so be it.

The weight of Miranda's cloak dragged at his arm. Jack threw the length of it over his shoulder, hand reaching by habit for the butt of his pistol, then the pommel of his sword. Once he deemed himself and the lady safe... safe-_er,_ he would order the _Pearl_ to fire off a signal battery. If those who sailed with him had the sense to have followed orders and kept their heads clear, they'd know to come a-running at the sound. Perhaps Mr. Cotton's Parrot wound be so kind as to fly ahead and alert those still aboard ship that their Captain was making yet another hasty exit.

Heading briskly through soggy streets shadowed beneath a grimly overcast sky, Jack was so preoccupied in plotting the best escape route that he almost missed it. Almost walked right past the first sign that his grounds for concern had just escalated from amorphous to absolute. This time the lurch in his gut suggested a sudden and precipitous drop of his stomach into the toes of his boots. He halted in mid step, frowning deeply. Then, backing up a span of three careful paces, he came to a stop beside piles of accumulated rubbish, where he glimpsed a familiar round container that most certainly should not be there. Cursing softly, Jack stooped to retrieve his Quartermaster's abandoned flask. Near to full, if he could judge by the weight.

If there were certainties to be had in this life, one of them would be this: that seals would sing a Handelian oratorio before Joshamee Gibbs willingly casting aside the most dearly held of his effects. Jack uncapped the flask for a quick nip, then eyed it with some surprise when, not rum, but the smokey burn of well aged whiskey warmed a path down his throat. No, Gibbs would never part with so rare and fine a potable as this without a fight.

"Not good." Jack pivoted, stride lengthening into a sprint with the lump of Joshamee's flask tucked into his waistcoat, Miranda's cloak draped over his shoulder, and the most disheartening knowledge that he was walking into a trap he had no idea how he'd talk himself out of. Oh, he had been so sure of himself. So convinced that his scheme was the best path to success. Even the sight of both the _Reaver_ and the _Hadrian_ had not been enough to dissuade him. Jack was not a man to wallow in self-recrimination. Had the risks been solely himself or his crew, he still would not. In their lives, such happenings were a matter of course.

But Miranda had trusted him. Trusted with far more even than life and limb. What might that trust be costing her right now?

He paused, daring a peek up the narrow way that led to the Fiddle & Fife. The street was empty: a fact that in and of itself made the hair on the back of his neck stand on end. At this time of day, and with so many ships at anchor, there should be at least some sign of life. As he debated his next move, the cloak shifted, spilling down his arm. A tendril of fragrance rose from the fabric, worming itself into his awareness. Orange blossoms and sandalwood; her scent reaching out to him.

Jack growled, then released his hold, finger by finger, from its convulsive grip upon his sword. Had he not been the one to remind the Lady to keep her wits about her? Then why was he about to draw his blade and rush pell-mell into whatever awaited him like the most foolishly besotted hero in some dreadful Gothik novel.

Hero. Hah! Even Bootstrap's whelp had more sense... if only just. Jack drew a long, deep breath and moved on.

It didn't take long for his instincts to inform him that they'd once again proved spot-on. From the edge of his vision he noted the pale, stubbly face of one of the locals peering out from the slit of a barely opened door. The door slammed with a bang. Jack heard the sound of a hastily thrown bolt, then the scrape of a bar slid into place. Above him, on the second floor of one of the many bawdy houses, curtains fluttered as those behind them made themselves scarce. He took this in with a blithe shug, sauntering along in his affected, tipsy walk. But the skin between his shoulder blades crawled. As did the back of his scalp, for now there were footsteps behind him. Furtive, yet making no real effort to hide, nor to close on him. He didn't bother to look back. The sounds told him there were at least two men, and the chances of these belonging to anyone other than Hammond's crew were slim to none. Jack suppressed a telltale shudder, stepping once more into the little square as if he hadn't a care in the world.

The first person to catch his eye was the very same buxom lass previously seen in the charming presence of his Bosun. Cheeks pale and arms laden, the wench made straight for a table. Her voluminous skirts and collection of ale mugs blocked the occupants from view. Stammering nonstop, she served out drinks and apologies with equal haste. She paused in her frenetic movements, then staggered back with a cry, and with her hand held to a reddening mark on her cheek. Clearly unnerved, she bolted for the imagined safety of the Fiddle & Fife. None other than the slovenly figure of Georgie Hallard himself was there to greet her, giving a reassuring pat to her shaking shoulders, while sending a baleful glare to that one table.

Jack looked to the cause of the commotion. His heart seemed indeed to skip, and a red haze swam up from the corners of his eyes, threatening to mark everything. But forcing roiling emotions aside, forcing his feet to continue their leisurely pace, he pressed on. "Eleazar," he announced brightly. "So this is where you've taken yourself off to. A merry chase you've lead me on, mate."

Eleazar Hammond turned, thin lips bending in a smirk. Beside him, Miranda seemed barely to breathe as the point of Hammond's dagger traced a light path down one bloodless cheek. "Sparrow," the disfigured man acknowledged evenly.

Jack sketched a brief bow, then gestured broadly to the silent noblewoman. "And I see you've managed to round up my darling, wayward Francesca. Told you not to wander, Didn't I, sweetling?" he chided with a smile. Miranda's eyes flickered to his, desperate and hope filled, but quickly darted away. Returning to focus on some far away point as Hammond's men chuckled darkly all around them.

Jack turned in a slow circle, taking in the daunting number of men surrounding him on all sides. From the look of things, Hammond had summoned most of his crew. Many covered his own men with weapons drawn. The Pearls - including his somewhat battered Quartermaster and First Mate, Jack noted - all knelt on the muddy ground. AnaMaria had one arm clutched to her chest, her wrist canted at an odd angle. She followed Jack's progress with eyes full of apologies. Their assorted armaments lay heaped in a pile some distance away, where a weedy, sneering fellow stood watch. The pair that had shadowed Jack now stood in the open, looking on with dull interest.

There were other onlookers. Still clustered at their tables were the sailors who had earlier shown such a loud appreciation for Lady Miranda's form. Now these men sat quietly subdued, and with their hands in plain evidence. Hammond's crewmen guarded these men as well. Jack could only guess that they had been encouraged to stay put. All seemed inclined to do as told.

All save the brash, gangly bloke who had traded words with him only two bells prior. "Oi! Sparrow!" he barked. With his head wobbling drunkenly, and ignoring the frantic whispers of his wiser comrades, the young man rose to his feet with an accusing finger pointing at Jack. "Said they wuz lookin' fer you. S'all your fault, it is!" Jack lifted his brows, pointing to himself.

"Aye, you," was the sullen reply. "An' they won't let 'er sit wif us, neither. How come none 'o you lets 'er come 'n sit wif us? We wasn't gonna hurt 'er none." For one long, uncomfortable moment, Jack feared the lad might burst into tears. But shaking off the increasingly urgent hands of his mates, the poor fool pressed on.

"An' now you brung them 'ere!" he shouted. Jack winced as the drunken sailor flung a hand out to include Hammond and his men. "Keepin' her all to 'emselves, an' scarin' off Mazie an' the ale. We ain't never 'ad no trouble wif the _Harridan_ afore you brung 'em -"

And just like that, it was over. When the smoke, oaths, and exclamations faded, the young man's complaints had been silenced. Permanently.

"Boy should've learned not to disrespect a man's ship," Hammond's graveled voice pronounced. His spent pistol clattered to the tabletop. Sickened, Jack looked from the one-eyed pirate, to the pale woman beside him. Miranda sat rigidly upright, the dagger point still hovering near her cheek, and with the hand of a great bulking crewman heavy on her shoulder. She shuddered as the thick fingers stroked over the back of her neck. Her revulsion only prompted an ugly grin from the man holding her in place.

Again, Jack ground his teeth together in an effort to ward off the ever-growing urge to fly screaming and leaping to the rescue. Instead, he waved happily at the chair across from Hammond, and settled himself into it before the other man could voice invitation or refusal.

"A sad truth, to be sure, when not timely learned," Jack concurred. "One should never trifle with another man's... ship. It never works out quite as planned." His eyes moved slowly to meet those of Hammond's intrusive crewman. It was a subtle reminder: Captain Jack Sparrow was here, with the _Black Pearl_ at his command. Hector Barbossa was... presently enjoying a far, far warmer climate, if the universe held any justice. It was not a card he played often. Jack was rewarded with a look of unease. The massive hand still remained on the lady's shoulder, though with a bit more deference. Jack smiled tightly, and claimed Hammond's own drink. Downing some, he gave an overplayed wince.

"What with all the gold you were claiming to offer, you couldn't spare enough for something less rancid?" He shuddered, making a face as he slid the mug back across the table. Hammond scowled, pushing the drink aside.

"T'was yer own fault fer leadin' us here," he snapped.

Jack blinked innocently. "Me? Why, I did nothing of the sort, Eleazar," he protested. "Francesca and I merely had some unfinished affairs of our own before seeing to any not quite resolved business between you and I."

Hammond cocked his head, scarred face sly. "Think yer so smart, don't ye, Sparrow," he asked softly. A chill threaded its way through Jack's bones. _This_, _old boy_, a little voice in his mind warned, _is where it all falls apart._

"Think ye'll just talk yer fancy talk 'n pull the wool over ole' Hammer's eye, do ye?" The eye in question gleamed with a vicious light. His dagger still lingered far too near Miranda for Jack's liking.

Jack cleared his throat uneasily. "Now, Eleazar, you know I'd never dream of -"

"Of gettin' caught at it!" Hammond interrupted. "Ain't that right? Hmm? Well, you 'n me know there's no truth to be had in that one, don't we?" The blade came away from Miranda. Hammond buried the point in the span of table between himself and Jack, lunging forward with a hiss. "Just like we know there ain't no one who goes by 'Francesca' here."

Jack flicked his eyes to the Lady. "You been telling stories again, luv?"

Hammond wrenched his knife free, bolting up from his seat. Curses flew from his lips as he dug his grimy fingers into the noblewoman's hair, dragging Miranda to her feet. Her cries of pain and fear set the blood to rushing in Jack's ears. He was dimly aware of having risen himself, fingers freezing in the act of reaching for his sword. Jack lowered his hand, but it took every ounce of will to do so.

"I'll be tellin' the stories now, Sparrow." Hammond's twisted face was alight with triumph. "No 'Francescas' in 'em, though. This be a story with..." He yanked cruelly at Miranda's hair, pulling her obscenely close to leer, "'Er noble Ladyship."

Miranda flinched away, but Hammond's grip was too strong. Jack's teeth were clenched so tightly that his jaw ached. He forced a laugh out from between them. "Oh, honestly, Eleazar. Admittedly the lass cleans up well. Even I myself never suspected what lurked beneath all that scullery grime. But the peerage?" He chuckled again. Easier this time, and waved a hand about as if this were the most preposterous thing he's ever heard. Strained laughter came from the ranks of the Pearls. His men doing what they could to aid him.

Hammond frowned with uncertainty. Just for a moment. All too soon his face darkened with rage. "She ain't set foot in a scullery her whole life, I'll wager," he barked. He shook his fist in Miranda's hair until the poor girl was staggering to stay upright. "'N besides, seen 'er before, I have!" Hammond's look grew crafty again. He lowered his voice. "T'was a painting shown me by an old... acquaintance of a business-like nature, ye might say. Only bare more than a month ago, but I'll bet me eye this be the same trollop he's seekin'." The single eye raked over Miranda's shuddering frame. "Said he'd pay good ta get his 'ands on 'er again. Always had a taste for a fine romp, ole' Ned did," Hammond mused, rusty voice dropping. The tip of his knife touched Miranda's cheek again, point lingering there for a long moment, then lowered to follow the line of her throat, and downward still. The blade traced back and forth in some hideous mockery of a lover's touch over the lace framed swell of her bosom. Hammond pulled her closer to bury his nose in her hair.

"Ooh... even smells clean, too. Think I'll have me a taste of what Ned's willin' ta part with so much gold over afore I give ye back to 'im... Lady Dunnthorpe."

Jack started at the name. Miranda seemed to stop breathing altogether. Hammond nodded knowingly. "Don't think his Lordship'll begrudge it. Hope yer feelin' generous, little girl. Me crew might find me in a mind ta share."

Eyes dark with terror, Miranda still met Hammond's smirking face dead on. "I am not the Lady Dunnthorpe," she declared, low voice clear in spite of the tremor there. But Jack could hear the panic lurking just below the surface. Miranda was about to move. She was about to fight to free herself, and when she did, Hammond would do more than merely hurt her. He was sure she knew this, but she was beyond the need for anything but to escape this tormentor. She had reached the end of her endurance. So, for that matter, had Jack.

"Hammer!" he roared. Hammond's head snapped up, the single eye fixing on him with a challenge. Jack tried to calm himself. His enemy had stupidly let slip his intentions. Had revealed, like the fool he was, just what value his prisoner had. It was a weapon that Jack eagerly seized. "This is all well and good, your dreams of ransom, and... er... sampling. I'd had plans in much that same heading myself before we were so rudely interrupted." _Oh, forgive me for that, darlin'!_ "But you, my monocular friend, are forgetting one minuscule, but very much insurmountable detail." At the other's perplexed stare, Jack smiled thinly. "Until such time as the proper transactions have been agreed upon, yon fair lady's person and effects are still under my, ah... proprietorship, as it were."

Hammond's men chuckled again. A low, threatening wave of sound that rippled throughout the square. Their Captain bared his rotting teeth.

"Finder's keepers, Sparrow. If ye wanted ta hang on ta 'er, ye shouldn't've let her run loose." Jack began to counter this reasoning, but unexpectedly, Samuel Bottoms beat him to it.

"She was with us, she was!" the lad exclaimed.

"Aye," Tearlach rumbled. "On the arm of our First Mate when you scabs nabbed her."

"First Mate stands for the Cap'n when 'ees not around." This from Marty, glaring darkly up at his captors. "Everyone know this!"

"Against the Code as well," Joshamee Gibbs added now. "Man can't steal another man's take."

Jack stifled the urge to roll his eyes at that. As it stood, there were the complications of the Code being subject to a somewhat... looser interpretation when on land. The Code was subject to a rather lax interpretation whilst at sea as well, but his men were already concurring heartily. Loudly, down to the last man... or woman disguised as man, in AnaMaria's case. Even to Mr. Cotton's Parrot, who poked its beak out from behind a stack of barrels to demand that Hammond, "Keep to the Code! Keep to the Code!"

Hammond, fist clenching around his dagger, grew alarmingly red. Roaring an oath, he threw Miranda into the hands of his huge crewman. He wrenched a second pistol from his belt. "Bugger the Code, and hang the lot o' ye!" he screamed, brandishing both weapons in a haphazard way. He paused then, appearing to consider his words. "Although... not such a bad idea, that. Them what's dead don't have much to say, do they, boys?" Turning on Jack with a triumphant grin, Hammond raised his pistol, while the click of drawn flint hammers clattered and sounded all around.

_Bloody hell..._

"What in the nine circles of Hell is going on here?"

Salvation, Jack reflected, was a fickle thing. Mercurial. Protean, even. One could never know exactly when it might deign to show itself. Or, for that matter, he admitted as he faced the source of that booming voice, how it may choose to appear.

Tiberius Pickham was hardly the form that Jack would have expected. The towering, vastly bearded Captain of the _Reaver_ stood at the mouth of the common way. Booted feet planted wide, and hirsute face outraged, he looked from Jack to Hammond, then to the subdued onlookers seated tensely at their tables. "What cause have your men to be drawing weapons on mine, Hammer?" Pickham demanded.

"And mine," added the equally imposing figure at his side. Cleigh William FitzWalter, Captain of the privateer schooner _Speedwell_, was a man only slightly less towering and broad than the Reaver's Captain in stature. He made up for this discrepancy with the enormous and lavishly decorated hats that had become the privateer's trademark. The selfsame man whose drunken attempts to corner a wily goat had so amused Miranda as they waited out the rain at the Faithful Bride.

"I've not courted trouble with your lot, Hammer," FitzWalter declared. "Nor have my men."

"Was 'im what started it, Cap'n Cleigh!" cried a stout fellow, starting up from his seat. "He shot down poor Zeb, 'ee did! Like a dog!"

Ah. So Zeb would be the name of the lamentably deceased young fellow, whose sole mistake had been in the unthinking mockery of Hammond's notoriously unreliable ship. Certainly not the first life sacrificed on the alter of Hammond's twisted pride, and if he had his way, probably not the last this day.

FitzWalter's eyes shifted, then he turned, the great prow of his hat moving slowly with him like a ship on the waves, until all were aimed at the one-eyed Hammond. "You had no call for that, Hammer." The privateer's voice was cold and quiet. A dangerous combination from this normally boisterous chap.

"Aye," Pickham agreed. His beard fairly bristled with indignation. "An' whatever cause you've got to have it out with Sparrow here, you've got no cause to be holding my men. Our men," he added hastily with a sidelong glance at FitzWalter.

"I'll need no cause ta have yer overblown tripes for a purse if ye keep in my business," Hammond threatened. "Ye'll walk outta here now, if ye know what's good."

Without changing expression, Pickham raised a tarnished silver Bosun's whistle to his lips. The sharp, piercing notes had barely faded when a grim faced FitzWalter raised his pistol to the sky, and pulled the trigger. It was a small, heavily embellished Spanish-made piece with two barrels, one set atop the other. Jack himself had admired it with an acquisitive eye in the not-so-distant past. The first high popping sound still hung in the air when FitzWalter took hold of the smoking barrel, and gave it a good twist. The barrel spun, revealing the second hammer. FitzWalter fired off this shot as well. Both Captains stood their ground, Hammond's thrown gauntlet accepted.

The first reinforcements soon appeared, some still struggling into their clothing, having obviously been interrupted while engaging in more amorous pursuits. Others quickly followed, bringing the newcomer's numbers to nearly equal that of the _Hadrian's_ crew. All of them fingered their weapons anxiously. One hugely muscled, dark skinned bloke hefted a great cudgel, while flexing his arms with a menacing sneer. Hammond's men reached for their other armaments, beginning to realize that they'd lost their advantage as they tried to meet this new threat, while keeping a nervous watch on their prisoners.

"Well, Hammond," FitzWalter said in that same quiet voice. "Is it war you're wanting between us?"

"'N me besides? An' Sparrow here too?" Pickham added, folding his arms over his massive chest. "Your ship ain't the match o' the _Reaver_, nor the _Black Pearl_ for guns. An' all of us can outsail your _Hadrian_."

While he'd never had cause for grief with Cleigh FitzWalter, Jack never thought he'd see the day when both the _Speedwell's_ Captain and Tiberius Pickham would be allied with him. Not for any reason. Perhaps they, as many others before, had cause enough to come to blows with Hammond and his bullyboys. The odds were looking more and more in Jack's favor, now that the _Hadrian's_ crew were matched, for all intents. Hammond had never been one for a fair fight. But one glance showed that the scar-faced pirate was deep in a rage that bordered on complete madness.

"I'll not be backin' down afore a pair 'o swag-bellied, posturin' blowhards like you!" Hammond was fairly foaming at the mouth by now. "If it's a war yer wantin', I'll be the one handing' it to ye!" And he and his men now turned their arms towards their new opponents.

So much for salvation, Jack thought, casting about for a way to remedy a situation already gone to pot. The whole affair was about to go up like a rum keg in a bonfire, and he and his were caught square in the middle of it! He, his crew, and... Jack spun, meeting the eyes of the terrified noblewoman. Miranda, hair wrenched loose from her combs, pale as a ghost, and great eyes silently pleading for his help. Miranda - whom each of the three Captains now set to do battle this day had looked upon with more than passing interest.

He whirled away, spreading out his arms as he leaped forward. Seizing upon the one and only possible chance to avert disaster.

_"Parlay!"_

* * *

_**As always, please review! **_


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